


Suffer Little Children

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, New York City, Period-Typical Antisemitism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Serial Killer, Slow Burn, lots of 19th century ideas and attitude flying around, sleuthing, the non-con is not between Elio and Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 80,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: In 1899, 15-year old Elio is working in the world’s oldest profession to survive the pitiless Moloch New York. One night, he meets a trick from hell, barely escaping with his life. Luckily, he literally runs into Oliver, a Russian immigrant, who takes the street-kid in. While Elio tentatively starts to trust Oliver, other boys fall prey to a brutal murderer. As no one else seems to care, it soon becomes apparent that it’s up to Oliver and Elio, as the only witness, to hunt the killer down. Little do they know what dangers await them as they set out on an investigation that threatens to take everything they hold dear away from them – including each other.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 932
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really like to thank [MyPinkCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus) for encouraging me to write this story! It’s something I hesitated at first to commit to because the setting required a lot of research. But now I’m grateful that she cheered me on. On top of that support, she also created not one but two amazing covers. I’m in total awe of her talent.
> 
> This story is fully written. I'll update weekly on Monday.

**Warning for underage content! If that squiks you out, let’s part in peace.**

Hey, you’re still here! This AU was loosely inspired by The Alienist. You’ll discover places and elements you might know from the TV show or book, but this is not Alienist fan fic so I didn’t incorporate the characters and it’s not necessary for you to know the series.  
As for the age thing: I‘ve really thought about this, but for narrative reasons Elio is 15 in this story, turning 16. In my country, that would be legal today.  
At the end of the 19th century, the age of consent in New York City was 10-12, with an age as low as 7 (!) in Delaware for comparison. Of course, this refers only to heterosexual relations. Homosexual acts were punishable with up to 20 years imprisonment in a penitentiary.  
As another orientation, the general school leaving age in that period would have been around 12, just starting to rise to 13-14. So Elio would have been leading a mostly adult life at 15, though reform movements were forming to improve the situation of children and the destitute in general.  
Please keep that in mind when reading.  
There won’t be many explicit scenes between Elio and Oliver, but they will engage in mild sexual acts with each other. Elio will also talk about his experiences while hustling, including mentions of non-con regarding him and other boys turning tricks.

The fic title was taken from Matthew 19:14: _‘But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’_

Here we go…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elio stood in the freezing February breeze on the corner of Mulberry and Hester Street, shivering in his thin sateen dress, its frills and bows ruffled by the wind. The only good thing the cold did was putting a blush on his otherwise too pale cheeks. Suppressing a cough, he turned after a few steps, swinging what little hips he had as he walked back around the corner, hoping in vain to escape the icy gust at least for a few minutes.

He stuffed his hands in his armpits as he waited, longing for a hot drink or, even better, a bowl of steaming soup. But he needed to save every cent he got, so he would just draw out the wish for something warm and nourishing a little while longer.

Maybe a trick would turn up and buy a coffee for him? Or maybe a brandy. Elio briefly closed his eyes and allowed himself to dream of a crackling fireplace and a tureen of tasty stew, thick with fat beef and greasy from tallow...

But the images were blown away by another gale, carrying the scent of smoldering coal fires. Elio sincerely hoped it wouldn't snow again. Snow was bad for business as the tricks tended to stay home instead of going out and looking for a bit of fun.

So he stomped his feet on the hard sidewalk, turned, and rounded the corner once again.

Despite the weather and the hour, the streets were lively populated, the bars filled with noisy drunks, the cheap restaurants and dinner counters busy. The city never seemed to sleep, and around here the tenements were so overcrowded that people fled them even if it was below zero outside. At least on the street they could avoid the rats and fleas eating them alive in their small, dark rooms that never saw daylight, no matter how high up in the building.

With the shrewd experience of the long-time streetwalker, Elio became suddenly aware that someone was watching him. So he pulled his shoulders back, bit his lips and tucked a stray curl behind his ear, coyly lowering his gaze.

A moment later, a man asked him if he got some time to spare. Elio lifted his eyes, nodded, took in the good coat lined with fur, the elegant boots, the walking cane... Oh yes, quite promising. He didn't bother to pay attention to the tricks face, though. He couldn't afford to care about looks. All he was interested in was earning money. A trick had to look solvent, not appealing. He'd learned that suits and shoes were usually good giveaways.

“Well, maybe you'd like to walk with me a little?” The man asked, offering Elio his arm. He was about to put his icy hand on the woolen sleeve when someone from behind him said: “Don't waste your time with her, Mister. She's got lice… down there. Her crotch is literally crawling with it. Whereas I can promise you virginal cleanliness, for just one dime.”

Elio turned, forcing a smile on his frozen face, but behind it he was ready to punch his adversary quite brutish in the mouth.

“Bella, dear, didn't you shave today? Is that a mustache on your face?” Elio chirped before turning back to his trick, possessively clutching to his arm. “Don't listen to her, the clap must have softened her brain. Is it still itching, Bella? Anyway, I can be really friendly with you for only 8 Cents, Mister.” He batted his eyelids, winked.

But Bella was blond, and plump, her cheeks well-rounded like two ripe apples, and her eyes so blue they reminded Elio of the cornflowers he remembered from the stifling summers of his Sicilian childhood. And apparently, that was more to his trick's liking, because he removed Elio's hand from his arm and wrapped it instead around Bella's waist.

“Just five cents, Mister!” Elio yelled after them as they walked down Mulberry Street, maybe heading for the little park around the bend.

With them went Elio's stew and coffee.

But he couldn't really blame Bella. He was usually a nice chap, often sharing his cigarettes with Elio. But out here on the street, at work, it was every boy for himself.

And Elio, at fifteen, was getting too old for it.

Thank god he was a late bloomer, but neither that nor his sparse diet was saving him from growing, eventually sprouting facial hair that needed a shave more and more often. His shoulders were broadening as well. The corset was starting to tweak more painfully every day he put it on. His voice had eventually fully broken a few month ago and since then he mostly whispered with his tricks in a husky tone he hoped sounded alluring as his sweet clear soprano was now history.

The changes in his body frightened him. It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed his line of work, but it put bread in his mouth most days. When his drunkard of a father had kicked him out at the age of eleven, he'd tried to beg at first, but he still had two arms and two legs and no club foot, and his complexion had been too rosy. Then he'd tried to steal but there had been way better thieves around, trained from a young age to pick pockets.

After getting roughed-up by a shopkeeper for trying to nick a pear, a fellow street kid wiping the blood off his face had pointed out that with his milky skin, full lips, glossy curls and big green eyes he'd made a very sweet fairy.

So, here he was now, four years later, parading the streets at night in a peach-colored dress bought from the Salvation Army for just one Dollar, telling them it was for his sister. When he wasn't out here, working, he shared a room higher up Mulberry Street with six other boys, some streetwalkers like him, some slaving in sweatshops or rag-picking sacks full of garbage.

Elio hadn’t decided yet what was worse.

But it made him afraid what his future might bring when he allowed himself to dwell on it. Right now, his tricks were usually pretty tame. They wanted to spend time with a pretty girl without risking knocking her up. They wanted to hold his hand, stroke his ankle, wanted him to go down on his knees and suck them off. Rarely full on sodomy was expected from him, an act that he didn’t particularly like but that the tricks usually at least paid generously for.

Yet when he'd have to move on and become a real bum boy, those demands would change. He'd heard talk at Paresis Hall, about the sick things some johns demanded. He shuddered, not just from the cold.

But he hoped that at least for a few more months, he might be able to pass as a girl, at least at night or in the gloomy light of bars like The Slide around the corner.

As the streets started to empty and a clock struck midnight, Elio contemplated walking up there. At least he would be inside, and maybe someone would buy him a watered down beer for a kiss? But then he remembered that he was due rent tomorrow, and still a few dimes short. His landlord had told him often enough that he wasn't a charity for fallen boys, so he better got his money. Otherwise he might end up as one of those poor Police Station lodgers, living in fear that even his few possession might be taken away from him.

So he would give it another hour, he told himself, rubbing his hands together, gazing up and down the now almost empty street. Only a few drunks were staggering through the night, shouting at their own invisible demons.

Elio heard the Hansom cab before he saw it, the horse's hoofs clacking on the frozen mud. Yet it surprised him when the carriage pulled up next to him. As the door opened, a gloved hand reached from it, beckoning Elio closer.

“Hello, sweetheart.” The voice sounded deep, educated. “Can I give you a lift?”

Elio took a step towards the carriage, trying to peek inside. Someone who could pay two Dollars for such a ride could certainly pay another one for his services.

“Thank you, Sir. That’s very kind of you.” Elio whispered.

The driver up on the coach box stared ahead as Elio took the offered hand and climbed inside the cab. The john smelled of soap and leather and faintly of cigars.

“What's your name?” He asked as the cab starting moving again.

“Heloise.” Elio answered. That was the name he'd chosen for the street.

“Interesting name.” Elio had the strange feeling that the man’s eyes stared right into his skull. “You shouldn't be out there at this time of night, Heloise. It's dangerous.”

As if Elio didn’t know that. Just last week, little Billy Wheeler, a boy who used to work on Mulberry Street as well, was found dead, badly mutilated. Rumor had it someone had tried to cut his small dick off. Elio wasn't sure if that was really true or just some gruesome gossip but boys like him vanished all the time. And no one cared – as no one cared for them when alive.

There were no safe places for him and his like.

An image of his father flashed before his eyes, his face red with anger as he punched Elio in the stomach. He couldn’t even remember the reason. Maybe there wasn’t one, just his father’s drunken rage let lose. He shuddered again.

“I know, Mister.” He said obediently, staring out the window. There was nothing to see but his reflection, misted by his breath.

“Do you have anywhere to be? Otherwise, we could go to my place. I could need some company. And you could warm up.”

Oh, Elio had played this game so often.

“No, I'm free as a bird.” He batted his eyelashes before coyly lowering his gaze.

In the dark carriage, something silver gleamed as the trick offered Elio a flask. He quickly took a sip, the brandy stinging on his dry tongue.

“Take another.” The man encouraged. Elio did, soon feeling a little dizzy.

After a few minutes of silence, it became hard to keep his eyes open. He'd been on his feet out in the cold all evening and now the warmth and the rocking of the cab lulled him in. He tried to stifle a yawn with one hand, fleetingly aware that it looked rather big against the dainty frills of his dress.

“Why don't you rest a little, it's still at least one mile to drive.” The man suggested.

Yes, why not? Elio leaned his head against the padded backrest and closed his eyes.

When he woke up again, he was lying in a huge, dimly lit room with a high ceiling. He slowly sat up, wondering for a moment how he got here.

From an adjoining room, he heard a male voice hum.

Now he remembered the stranger with the cab.

He quickly glanced around. The room was mostly dark, so he could barely make out deep-red tapestry. On a small table next to the chaise he's been lying on a candle flickered, the only light visible. There were rich velvet curtains presumably covering windows. On the floor lay what looked to Elio's unschooled eye like a real Persian rug.

He got up, carefully smoothing down his dress. He still had his bloomers on, so the man didn't violate him while he was out. Had something been in the brandy? Maybe...

Elio slowly rounded the corner and gazed into the adjourning room. It was a bath, black and white tiles on floor and walls. In the middle stood a claw-foot tub into which a man – presumably the same who’d picked him up – was now emptying what looked like a jug of milk.

The man had shed his coat and was just in his trousers and shirt, sleeves rolled up. A golden chain dangled from the embroidered waistcoat, probably securing a fob watch.

That was far more interesting to Elio than the man's face.

“Hello.” Elio said, trying to make his voice sound as high as possible.

“Oh, you're awake. I thought a lovely girl like you would enjoy a hot bath on a cold evening.” The man didn’t look up at him.

Elio took a step closer. The tub was filled almost to the rim with turbid water. A sweet scent hung in the humid air.

“Donkey's milk. Good for the skin. Makes it smooth and soft.” The man explained as he got up and disappeared into the lingering shadows. The bathroom was illuminated only by a few candles placed on the tiles around the tub, which wasn’t enough to banish the darkness creeping in from the winter night outside.

Elio just nodded.

The man's voice sounded hoarse when he spoke again: “Why don't you take your clothes off? There's something different I want you to put on.” 

When Elio peered into the twilight, he could make out a lacquered Chinese screen painted with red dragons in the corner of the bathroom. 

“Over there?” He asked.

“Yes. It's beautiful, isn't it? Very old. My father brought it all the way from Hong Kong.”

Elio quickly slipped behind the screen. There, over a low stool, was draped what looked like a shiny silk robe, something he’d seen the Chinese men on Canal Street wear, black, also printed with red dragons breathing fire. He let the slick fabric run through his fingers, admiring the fine embroidery . This trick was definitely worth a few Dimes, even if he seemed a little odd.

But then, taking a hot bath, even in donkey’s milk, didn't sound too bad.

He’d had stranger requests.

So Elio got out of his dress as fast as its many buttons allowed, unhooked his corset and stepped out of his bloomers and chemise. Then he kicked off his boots and rolled down his stockings before putting on the silk gown.

It felt cool to his skin, luxurious. 

When he emerged from behind the screen, he was aware that the man was staring at him, following his movements. He took his time walking over to the bathtub, giving his john a good show.

“Perfect. Now, take it off. Slowly.” The man’s voice had dropped, sounding a little shaky.

As the moment of revelation had come, Elio suddenly experienced an overwhelming fear raising his hackles. Maybe it was his sixth sense, or his years of experience when it came to turning tricks, but something was definitely not right here.

He angled his body towards the door. He had no idea what lay behind the other room but it seemed vital to plan an exit.

“Take.It.Off!” The man's voice became a little shrill.

Elio swallowed. Better comply. He needed the money. Yet they had to negotiate his pay first.

“Will you… award my complaisance with a little gift?” He asked, exposing one shoulder.

The man only moved further into the shadows, but then something clinked on the tiled floor and a dime rolled towards Elio, rotating around its axis before ending up a few feet away from where he stood.

“When I’m finished with you I promise you a grand reward, more than you can imagine. Now, be good and get into the bath.” 

Elio stared a moment at the gleaming coin, then led the silk glide off both his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, revealing his slender, yet now undeniably male body.

He heard the man inhale sharply.

Taking courage, Elio reached for the rim of the tub, raising one leg to get in. But suddenly, the man stood only a few feet away, his hands behind his back, his body brimming with anger. Elio concentrated to stare on the golden watch chain, somehow not daring to look his trick in the face.

“It’s all yours.” He said, freezing mid-motion. “Do what you want with me.”

Even before he'd finished his sentence, however, the man's lunged at Elio, grabbing the thin silver chain with his Star of David resting on his chest.

“What is this?” The man hissed, pushing Elio backwards, away from the tub, his face now at least as red as Elio’s father's all those years ago.

Elio stumbled backwards but stayed on his feet.

“Unworthy! You dirty Jewish whore, get out of my house!” The man screamed into his face, shoving Elio before turning around and striding towards the screen. There, he grabbed Elio's clothes, balling them in one hand.

That was when Elio saw the long, slim, bowed knife the man had been hiding behind his back in his other hand.

Elio, already on his way towards the door, stilled. He barely caught the dress thrown at him nor did he take his time to dress properly.

Out. Just out! He had to get out of here!

“Sorry.” Elio mumbled, coming back to life while backing off, moving in the direction of the exit. He tried to pull his dress on, not bothering with fastening it, clutching his other garments in his left fist. He didn’t take his eyes off the man who was now pacing the tiled floor, one fist pressed against his brow, mumbling and cursing under his breath as he still held the knife in the other, knuckles turned white.

“Unworthy... dirty... filthy... lost...” Then he suddenly stopped and stared up at the ceiling, as if he were listening to something. Elio slipped on his left boot, hopping on one foot.

He'd almost reached the door...

The man’s voice steadily rose from a whisper to a growl: _“For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother's womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it!”_

The man turned, the knife in his hand glinting in the candlelight.

“Let him receive it!” He repeated firmly, staring at Elio, face twisted, eyes mad with rage.

There was another door to his right. Elio opened it. Behind it stretched a corridor.

Elio ran.

A flight of stairs. A hall. He lost one of his boots as he skittered over the polished floor but didn't care. Didn't stop.

He had to get out of here.

Were that steps behind him?

He ran towards the main entrance door. From outside, moonlight was streaming through its stained glass windows.

It was unlocked.

Elio stormed down a path, neither looking left nor right, and then he was in a street. There weren't tenements, instead huge white townhouses lined the sidewalks.

He didn't bother to look where he ran. He just ran, still sure he could hear someone following him.

His lungs were burning, his bare foot hurt. The dress was slipping from his shoulders.

But he didn't stop.

When he rounded a corner and collided with another body it felt like his pounding heart jumped out from his ribcage.

Rough wool, the smell of tobacco. Something sharp, chemical...

“No!” Elio screamed, trying to get out of the strong grip of two hands on his upper arms. “No! Let go.” And he kneed his assailant in the groin.

“Ouch.” The hands were gone.

Elio pushed away, but his frilly skirt got entangled around his ankles and he stumbled. The last thing he thought before he hit the sidewalk was that he'd never imagined to die like this.

He saw his mother's gaunt face, her eyes swollen from crying. He saw a dusty road baking in the Sicilian summer heat.

Then everything went dark.

\----------

This is how I imagined [Elio's dress](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/107189?sc_device=default&persisted=true&imgno=0&tabname=related-objects).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a little more about Elio's circumstances - and we meet Oliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your nice comments and for all the subscriptions this story already got!
> 
> This is the second cover [mypinkcactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus) kindly designed <3!

The light hurt Elio's eyes when he opened them. But at least he was warm.

He knew instantly that he wasn't on the thin mattress in his dirty, crowded room. But it took him a moment to become aware that he was lying in a real bed, under a starched sheet and a thick knitted comforter.

The room smelled very clean. Elio sniffed. Green soap and vinegar.

Where was he?

As he sat up, his head started pounding. He touched his brow, feeling a huge bump. What the hell... When he blinked his left eye pulsed with sharp pain and his vision was slightly distorted.

Still, he tried to look around. The room was small, with one window at the opposite wall through which pale sunlight shone. Next to the bed, there was just a chest of drawers with a washbowl on top, and a chair, its back to the wall.

When he peered under the sheet he discovered that he was naked.

What the fuck!?

Suddenly, the events from last night came back. The Hansom. The man. The bath. The Chinese gown. The knife... Elio running, fleeing...

He kicked the covers back and climbed out of bed as fast as he could, trying to ignore the dizziness that assaulted him as he moved. It couldn’t be helped. He had to get out of here. What had happened to his clothes?

As he was turning left and right, searching for his dress while trying not to completely panic, the door opened.

Elio didn't bother to cover his nudity. Instead, he went for the intruder.

“Let me go!” He screamed, launching himself forward with as much fervor as a naked man could muster.

The intruder stopped by the door. “Sure. But I thought you might want some breakfast first. And I should see about your stitches.” He sounded calm, friendly, and had only the slightest hint of an accent.

His kind, rather worried demeanor somewhat stymied Elio. He removed his hands from the strong upper arm he’d gripped in his frenzy and took the time to look at the man in front of him more closely.

Tall. Very tall. Blond hair, parted at the side. Blue eyes. Mid-twenties.

Definitely not the john who had tried to bath him in milk before cutting him up last night.

“Stitches?” Elio snapped, now more confused than frightened.

The man vaguely gestured towards his face, then took a step into the room, eyes fixed on Elio's chest, reaching out to touch the Star of David. Elio braced himself for another hateful tirade, for getting threatened and insulted, but instead the man said: “_Schəma jisroëil, adaunoi elauhëinu..._”

To which Elio replied without thinking: “_Adonai echad_.”

They stared at each other for a moment until the man removed his hand and looked around, eventually pulling the comforter from the bed to wrap it around Elio's naked shoulders.

“Sorry. Your... clothes... got wet and dirty when you fell. They needed a wash. I'll bring you something else to cover yourself. Then you can come downstairs for breakfast and I can have a look at your injuries. Okay?”

Elio just nodded, primly pulling the comforter around himself.

Left alone, he swiftly walked over to the window and looked outside. He saw a somewhat busy street in a neighborhood of small houses, only two or three stories high. Trees lined the sidewalk, carriages and horse carts drove up and down.

It seemed quite respectable. Elio was sure he'd never been here.

When he tried to open the window it slid up easily. Looking down, he discovered a rain pipe close by. He should be able to climb out of here. Or at least yell for help. The street looked like a neighborhood where someone screaming would raise attention.

He closed the window when he heard a knock on the door. It was the man again, with pieces of clothing in one hand and a jug of hot water in the other.

“I thought you might want to wash. There should be soap on the washstand.”

“Thank you.”

Alone again, Elio quickly set to work, scrubbing himself with the scented soap as lavishly as he dared. It had been a while since he'd been to the bath.

The shirt and drawers the man had brought somehow fitted him but the trousers simply fell off Elio's slim hips. So he left them on the bed and went down two narrow flights of stairs just in underwear. Well, he had dressed worse some mornings after.

He found himself in a cozy kitchen. A fire was crackling in the stove as he slid onto a bench at a scrubbed wooden table. The man was standing with his back turned to Elio, but when he looked around and saw him he poured him a cup of coffee from an emerald pot. It was black and looked quite strong.

“There's sugar.” He pointed to a jar on the table. Elio poured three spoons into his cup.

There was also fresh bread, butter, and a jar of red marmalade. Elio quickly took a slice and lathered it generously. The man smiled when he took the first bite.

“You’re hungry.”

Elio just nodded, wiping his sticky mouth with the back of his hand.

After he'd inhaled four more slices of bread and had downed his coffee, he felt much better. The man had watched him in silence but now he said: “My name is Oliver Molotok. And you are?”

“Elio. Elio Perlman.”

“Shalom, Elio Perlman.” Molotok took a sip of his coffee. “You seemed very upset last night when you literally ran into me.”

Elio swallowed, turning his empty mug in his hands. Could he trust this man? How much could he tell him? “Well, I had a bit of a shock.” That wasn’t a lie. He hoped Molotok wouldn't dig deeper into it. Elio was quite aware that he could go to jail for what he did. What if his host called the police on him?

Molotok's next words rang all his alarm bells.

“I hope you don't mind me asking... but you were wearing a dress. At first I thought you were a girl. But you are definitely... male... down there.” Molotok briefly lowered his eyes and Elio felt his face heat, despite the countless men who’d seen his private parts. Had more than looked at them, actually. “I couldn't help noticing when I put you to bed. So, was it a costume or... are you a hermaphrodite?”

Elio blinked. He'd heard that word before, at Paresis Hall, where people met who called themselves Cercle Hermaphroditos. They looked rich and wore women's clothes, so that couldn't be a bad thing, right? And Molotok sounded more intrigued than alarmed. Therefore, Elio quickly nodded.

Molotok looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Without anything better to do, and maybe to get some distance between himself and his rather strange host, Elio took his plate and mug and went over to the large sink. There were two taps, presumably for cold and also hot water. Elio was stunned as he turned the faucet and a warm cascade gushed into the sink. At his tenement they all used a fire hydrant in the street to get water for cooking, cleaning and washing. In winter, it was ice-cold. This device here was pure luxury.

He started rinsing the dishes. At least it gave his hands something to do.

“You know, I'm an apothecary.” Molotok went on, still sitting at the table. Elio didn't know so he just listened. “I see myself as a man of science. And I'm... fascinated by the human mind. Not just the brain as an organ, but by what makes us tick. Sexuality seems to be a major factor.”

Elio started to dry the plate, wondering what kind of a weird hook-up this was. If the guy wanted something sexual, he should just say so. Elio was still a few dimes short on rent and with him he wouldn't mind earning them.

“I'm especially interested in the more unusual forms of human sexuality. Perversions. Degeneration. Deviance. Back home, I read a very enlightening paper on hysteria by a doctor from Vienna. Apparently, unfulfilled sexual desire influences our behavior much more than we think.”

Elio put down the towel, having enough of this gibberish. He could show that guy some perversions all right. So he went over to Molotok with three strides, leaned closer, his face just inches away from his Host’s mouth. “It doesn't have to be unfulfilled, mister.” He started to unbutton his shirt, his other hand reaching for Molotok's crotch.

“What? No... no, oh my god, sorry, no, that's not what I meant.” Molotok pushed his chair back and got up, stepping away from Elio. He felt himself blush again. Shit! Now the guy would certainly call the fuzz.

“I should go.” Elio straightened, moving towards a door to his left, only to realize that he was just in his underwear. He needed his dress back. Sewn inside was all the money he owned. If it was lost he'd have to pawn his Star of David as his only possession of any value. And he’d rather not do it. “Where's my… clothes?” He asked with what little dignity he had left.

“Uhm, I put it in the wash, outside in the backyard. There was mud on it, and blood.” Molotok was talking to him as if he were a somewhat dimwitted child. Yet the initial shock from Elio coming at him had left his expression.

“Can I have it, please, sir, and then we pretend this never happened and you just let me go back to my digs?” Elio was aware that he sounded small, pleading, but his host had seemed nice so far so maybe he would be moved by his humbleness.

Molotok stared at him a moment longer, than gave a curt nod. He led Elio down a short corridor towards another door that opened into a small square yard. There, on a cloth line, Elio's peach-colored dress blew in the cold wind. Next to it hung his corset, his chemise, and his bloomers.

“You just had one boot.” Molotok said as Elio started to take his clothes down. The dress still showed dark-red stains on its front and the lower seam of the skirt was ripped apart – probably from when Elio had tripped – but that could be mended. More important were his hard-earned savings. Elio felt for the small purse hidden in the folds of the petticoat. Thank god the money was still there.

He bundled everything up, even his one lonely boot that stood next to the backdoor, said thank you, and went back inside.

“The exit is through the shop, down there.” Molotok pointed in the opposite direction of the yard.

“Okay... so... where am I?” Elio asked, clutching his possessions to his chest.

“Irving Place. Near Union Square. That's where you ran into me, coming down 5th Avenue.”

Elio quickly did the math. He almost never ventured this far up North. Would be over a mile back to Mulberry Street. He shrugged. He'll walk.

Molotok looked at him questioningly. “Where do you have to go?”

“It's not far.” Elio lied.

“You don't have proper clothes. And no shoes. It's winter.”

Elio shrugged again. “I should get going. I can wear these.” He pointed to a worn pair of wooden clogs next to a small door leading probably into the pantry. “If you’ll let me. I promise to return them.”

Molotok followed his gaze. “Oh, I had forgotten… you can keep those. They belonged to one of the housemaids I hired. The first stole from me. The second eloped with the butcher boy from around the corner. The third quit last Friday when she saw me set up things for Shabbat. Working for a ‘dirty jock’ didn't agree with her Christian faith.” A sharp crease appeared on Molotok’s forehead as his voice had gone bitter. “In fact, you washing up is the most I've seen anyone do when it comes to chores in this house in a while.” His smile transformed his face back into the friendly expression Elio had to admit he liked.

He looked around, took in a dirty pot on the stove, a pile of washing in the corner, stains on the counter and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Eventually, he rested his eyes on his bare feet. “It's the least I could do for you for taking me in for the night.” His big toe drew circles on the floor. He somewhat dreaded leaving, being exposed to the sharp wind outside again, walking home to his dreary lodgings where nothing awaited him but hunger and a greedy landlord.

“Where do you live? Do you at least have a roof over your head?” Molotok asked gently as Elio stayed silent.

Elio kept his eyes cast down. “Sort off. I share a room with six other boys. At least I did. Rent's due today and I can't pay-”

“One room for seven boys? That can't be healthy.” Molotok's outraged, angry tone surprised Elio.

He thought of his dirty straw mattresses crawling with fleas and lice, the freezing cold in the winter, the stifling heat in the summer, the damp, moldy walls. The rats climbing over them at night. The smell of rot and garbage...

“It's all I can afford. It's just a Dollar a week and no questions asked.” He dared to raise his eyes, looking at Molotok through his long, curly fringe. “So, if you'd excuse me, I really should...” And he was tilting his head in the direction of the door which, according to his host, should lead towards a shop and then onto the street. Away from this warm kitchen, the food, the soft bed he’d slept in… and this very handsome, kind and generous man. As he turned it felt like moving through quicksand.

“Listen, Elio. I have a proposition for you.” Molotok sounded hesitant.

Elio stopped. “What kind of proposition?” He asked carefully. The guy had rejected him just ten minutes earlier... what the hell was he propositioning now?

Whatever it was, Elio would do it.

“Instead of walking the streets at night, dressed like a girl, and sleeping with six other boys in a room, you could stay here. I need someone to help me and those maids have been a disaster so far. You can’t do worse. In fact, you can wash dishes, so sweeping a floor and doing some shopping won't be too much to ask of you, would it? Maybe you can even cook?”

“I can.” Elio blurted out. “Maccu.”

Molotok looked at him blankly.

“It's a Sicilian soup. Made of beans... and leftovers. You can put anything in it. It's delicious.” Elio explained, talking too fast.

“Sicilian?”

“I'm originally from Southern Italy. We came over about ten years ago.”

“I'm from St. Petersburg.” Now it was for Elio to look blank. “Russian Empire?”

Elio had only a very vague idea what that meant but he nodded just the same.

“I'll teach you to cook borscht. I've just arrived five months ago. So I guess I can need you as my guide here. To show me around.” Molotok smiled a little shy.

“Sure.” Elio nodded. A strange sense of relief came over him and made him relax for the first time today.

“So, when can you move in and start?”

“Now. Right now.”

“Okay. Great.” Molotok laughed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking rather pleased. He had large hands, Elio had noticed, long fingers, very clean, short nails.

“I just have to get my stuff and then I'm back. I'll cook dinner tonight.” Elio still couldn't believe his luck.

“Yes. Great. I have to open up now.” Molotok nodded towards the door to the shop.

But neither of them moved as they stood in the middle the kitchen, staring at each other. Something fluttered in Elio's stomach before coiling tight.

Oliver was the first to speak again: “Before you go, come over into the dispensary. The light is better there. I want to take a look at your stitches.”

Oh, yes, his stitches. Elio raised his fingers to his face. His left eye still felt funny. Now he discovered that there was a suture to his eyebrow, the rough twine feeling foreign, out of place.

The pharmacy smelled of herbs and chemicals, just like Molotok. As they stood by the front window, the apothecary's huge hands carefully touched Elio's forehead. The sharp scent of disinfectant filled Elio’s nostrils.

“It looks better than I hoped. Your brow had a cut and was bleeding heavily because you hit your head on the sidewalk. I had to stitch you up just with candlelight. It will give you a scar but that might actually look quite dashing.” Molotok’s hand was soft and gentle when he lifted Elio's chin to turn his face towards the light.

“Yeah... thank you.” Elio had trouble swallowing, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

“That's my calling, you know. Helping people get better.”

When their eyes met, Elio was astonished how blue Molotok's were. Fathomless as the ocean Elio had crossed to get here; bright as cornflowers in a field he remembered from his childhood…

A knock on the pharmacy's door made them both jump a little.

“I'm late.” Molotok said with a somewhat distant smile, letting go of Elio to let his first customer in.

Taking his cue, Elio left the shop and climbed the stairs back up to the chamber he'd slept in. He put his crumpled dress onto the bed – his bed now – then sat next to the pile for a minute.

Was this the answer to his prayers?

An hour later, he was back at the dingy room on Mulberry Street, gathering his few possessions: a pair of drawers, old nailed boots he'd found in a garbage dump, way too large for him and stuffed with newspapers, two pairs of threadbare socks, a pair of trousers, one stained and often mended shirt, and a photograph of his family taken back in Sicily. Apart from his working clothes, this was all he owned in the world.

He took a moment to stare at their frozen expressions in the old foxed picture: His father towering over them all, his face hard and earnest. His mother, her dark hair covered with a headscarf, her expression sad, holding a small baby in her arms. Elio and two girls whose names he had forgotten – they were his sisters, yet long dead – cowering between the adults. They were all wearing their Sunday best for the photographer yet they still looked poor, sick and dirty.

Elio touched his mother’s face with his index finger. “I’m okay, mum. Don’t worry.”

He was wrapping everything in his shirt when Bob entered the room. He helped a street vendor sell fruit and sometimes brought half-rotten apples for the boys which they all shared.

“Elio, where've you been? Mackey has been looking for you. He's really mad.”

Mackay was their landlord. Elio pulled up the too large slacks Molotok had given him, held around his waist with a piece of cord, and shouldered his bundle.

“You can tell him I'm moving out.”

Bob stared at him. “Where to? Found a rich trick to take you in?” He made a lewd movement with his tongue in cheek but grinned at the same time.

“Something like that, yeah.” Elio answered evasively.

Bob suddenly got serious. “What happened to your face?”

“I fell.” When Bob just laughed Elio hurried to assure him. “Seriously, I ran, tripped over the hem of my skirt and crashed face-first onto the sidewalk.”

Bob chewed on his lower lip, shaking his head. “Take care, will you. Remember all those boys going missing. Remember little Billy Wheeler, found with his member cut off? Or that boy from next door, who just vanished from one day to the other? Or-”

“He's not like that, okay!” Elio interrupted, a little shocked by his own vehemence.

“Okay!” Bob raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.” Elio let his gaze wander the room he'd lived in the past year one last time. He wouldn't miss a thing.

In one corner something furry scurried in the dark.

“So, can I tell Mackay he can rent your mattress out to someone else?” Bob asked matter-of-factly.

“Sure.” Elio didn’t look back as he shouldered his bundle, already running down the stairs, hurrying to get away from here.

That evening, Elio peeled potatoes in the cozy kitchen on Irving Place while a chunk of mutton was stewing in a pot on the stove. He remembered that just 24 hours ago he'd dreamed up something like this. How strange... he smiled, whistling a little tune he picked up from one of the bars on Mulberry Street.

When Elio was setting the table, Molotok came into the kitchen after locking up the shop.

“Tomorrow, I'll show you around the pharmacy, so you can man the counter when I have other business to attend.” His hand fell on Elio's shoulder, squeezed it approvingly, and Elio nodded, looking up.

“I'll sweep the shop when I'm done here.”

“Great. Thank you. I'll have a wash. Tell me when dinner's served.”

“Sure.”

Half an hour later, Elio yelled up the stairs “Food's ready!” But he didn't get an answer. So he climbed to the first floor and looked around, trying to identify Molotok's room. The first door he opened was a study full of books. The next one was the bedroom.

Elio didn't knock, so his employer wasn't aware that he was being watched. He was sitting on a stool with his back to the door, just in his trousers, and Elio got a prime view of his lean, muscled back as he was pulling up his socks.

A strange felling stirred deep in Elio's belly, making his spine tingle.

Then he coughed.

“Food's ready.” He said again when Molotok turned around. His throat felt dry.

“Thanks, I'll be down in a moment.”

They ate in silence, Elio digging in like he was famished – which he was. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten meat. Yet after the first slice he tried to hold back to keep up appearance, greedily eyeing the delicious piece of mutton simmering in its pot, glistening with greasy stock. His mouth watered so much he feared he might start drooling.

As if he realized his hunger, Molotok offered him a second helping, and a third, smiling a little when Elio eventually patted his full belly.

Elio was just about to get up and do the dishes when Molotok grabbed his wrist. “Sit for a second.”

He sank back down onto the bench.

“Now tell me, how come a Jewish boy from Sicily is walking the streets of New York at night, dressed as a girl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really was a Cercle Hermaphroditos:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cercle_Hermaphroditos
> 
> Paresis Hall is also a historic place:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paresis_Hall
> 
> Around the time of this story, parts of Mulberry Street were one of the worst slums in Manhattan: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mulberry_Street_(Manhattan)  
http://100photos.time.com/photos/jacob-riis-bandits-roost-mulberry-street  
https://infamousnewyork.com/2017/03/19/mulberry-street-bend-new-yorks-original-back-alley/


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio starts to work for Oliver and at first everything goes smoothly. But Elio is still not quite sure what to make of his employer...

Elio was squirming a little under the intense gaze of his new employer. When he looked down and saw his huge yet elegant hand wrapped around his thin wrist, something fluttered in his chest. Yet Molotok seemed to misunderstand his stare and quickly removed his fingers.

“Sorry.” He said. “I didn't mean to... overstep.”

“No, it's okay.” Elio desperately wanted to reassure him, not quite understanding why it was so important to him to ease Molotok’s conscience. “What do you want to know?” He tried to smile encouragingly.

“The story of your life, I guess?” Molotok said, sounding inquisitive but also a little apologetic, as if he was embarrassed by his own curiosity.

No one had ever asked Elio a question like this and he felt as if his tongue was tied.

“Maybe start at the beginning.” Molotok suggested, leaning back in his chair.

Elio frowned, tried to concentrate. He saw a small, white-washed cottage, remembered the heat of the sun, the smell of goat dung, tomatoes, olives, heard a baby cry...

“I already told you that we came here about ten years ago. I know I was born in Sicily, but I don't remember where exactly. A tiny village. We were very poor and my mother was always carrying a newborn around...” Elio saw the scene captured in the blotchy photograph he owned in front of his mind’s eye and blinked. “I _do_ remember the ship, though. It was dark and hot and stank. I got sick. My baby sister Dina died and was thrown overboard wrapped in some rags... Then, when we arrived here, my siblings caught measles. We lost my two sisters within one week… Anyway, we settled near Mulberry Street and my father worked at the docks for a while and my mother continued to have a new baby every year and went as a char woman to rich peoples' houses. The babies kept dying as well.” They'd only had one bed so they all slept in it during the unfamiliar cold winters, Elio, his parents, and the infants. He could still hear his father grunting and his mother making strange, pained noises at night. It had made him turn towards the wall, screwing his eyes shut and putting his hands over his ears.

Now, of course, he knew what had been going on. It had made him shy away from girls ever since he understood.

“We were still very poor and mother cried a lot and father started drinking more and more… and when he was drunk he hit us. Mother got ill with the cough and couldn’t go out to work anymore so I had to help her pick through the garbage to make some money for rent and buy some bread. One time, mother wanted to leave, and my father beat her up so badly...” 

Elio swallowed, shaking his head to chase away the memory of his mother lying on the floor, begging his father to stop, who kicked her hard again and again in the stomach, screaming at her in Italian while Elio was crouching in the corner, frightened and helpless, trying not to cry as to not make his father even more angry. He despised Elio's shyness, taunted him for not getting into fights like other boys, called him a weakling and a mamma's boy. On more than one occasion, he had taken his strap and tried to beat some manliness into Elio – not to much avail to his endless disappointment. 

“Then, one morning, about four years ago, I woke up and my mother lay next to me in bed, already stiff. Dead. I was alone with her, my father hadn’t come home that night. I didn't know what to do.” Elio stared into the distance, unseeing, as he was back in the dark, damp room, feeling his mother’s papery, cool skin, touching her hair, now more gray than black but still thick. He didn’t cry back then and he wouldn’t now. “When my father finally turned up and I told him what had happened he just said that he couldn't keep me any longer, that I was old enough to look after myself, and kicked me out. Like, literally, down the stairs of our tenement. The last thing he said to me was that I would have to make my living on my own from now on. Which I did.” Elio lowered his gaze onto the table, tracing its grain with the tip of his index finger, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“Which you did by... becoming a girl?”

“I'm not... I just do that for the tricks, alright? They pay better and are not that… rough. I mean, you're not calling the police on me now, are you, Mr Molotok?” Elio dared to look up at him through his fringe.

“Call me Oliver. And no, I'm not calling the police on you.” He patted Elio's arm. “So you walked the streets for four years?”

Elio nodded.

Oliver's next question surprised him: “Are you healthy?”

“Well, yes, I guess so. I go to the baths as often as I can afford. So no lice, no itch, no clap. Don't worry.”

“Good. Just, in case you need it, I have powders against penile discharge-”

“No, no need for that, but thank you, Mr Molo-oliver.” Was he really discussing venereal diseases with his employer casually over the dinner table?

“Okay, well, it's no need to be ashamed of, is all I'm saying. Better get it treated, just in case...”

“Yeah, thanks.” Elio nodded again, shrugged. God, this was fucking awkward.

“How old are you then?”

“Fifteen, I guess. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm fifteen.” Elio sat a little taller to look more mature.

“Then you started out at eleven? Isn't that way to young to... engage with men in that way?” Oliver sounded apprehensive.

“Yeah, well, many johns like us young in my kind of trade. They want to believe us to be innocent, impressionable, and it's easier to pass as a girl before puberty.”

“What kind of men frequent you?” Oliver leaned over the table, his eyes roaming all over Elio's face, his shoulders, chest, arms, hands... he became acutely aware of how thin and frail he looked, and tried to pull up his shoulders to escape Oliver's intense scrutiny.

“Dunno. All sorts of guys. Normal guys.” And now and then an abnormal one, the latest wielding a knife... Elio didn't want to remember. This was all behind him now. He was grateful for the warmth of this kitchen, his full belly, the luxury of knowing that he would sleep in a cozy bed tonight. He felt a lump in his throat as he tried to swallow. “I should do the dishes.”

This time, Oliver didn't stop him as he got up.

“Thank you for being so frank. I'm sure you can show me some of the real New York sometime. With your intimate knowledge of its darker side.”

“You sure you wanna see that?” Elio asked form the safe distance of the sink.

“I told you, I'm fascinated by deviance.” And with that, Molotok went upstairs while Elio cleaned the kitchen, wondering what the hell those last words meant. At least it seemed that… Oliver hadn't lured him here to use him as a sex slave or something. Not that Elio had thought he would. His years on the streets had taught him some pretty good insight into human nature. It had been vital to access a trick. So Elio was pretty sure that his employer wasn't a brute.

Only, sometimes, his instincts failed him. As had happened a few nights ago...

So it could be the case with Oliver as well, friendly, kind, gracious Oliver. Why was he like that? Why was he treating Elio almost like an equal, was patient with him, acted as if he cared about him? Something was definitely fishy about all of it, Elio had to admit. He couldn't put his finger on it but stories like this usually only happened in fairy tales... So, what was the catch here? Because there had to be one, that much life had taught Elio.

Better be on guard until he found out.

The next day, Elio rose early, heated the stove, made some gruel for breakfast, then took in the newspapers from the front door. Oliver held quite a few, even some illustrated one's that Elio leaved through quickly with morbid curiosity as they mostly dabbled in all sorts of horrid crimes.

“Good morning. Wow, you've been busy.” Oliver greeted him back in the kitchen.

“That's my job.” Elio grinned.

They sat side by side, bent over their bowls, Oliver reading his papers, commenting on some news from time to time while Elio looked at his profile as he spooned up his porridge, taking in Oliver's strong nose, high cheekbones, long lashes, prominent chin…

There was a blond tuft of stubble on the underside of his jaw beneath his ear. Without thinking, Elio reached out and touched it.

His employer froze, his hands gripping the paper tighter.

“What's that?” He asked.

“Sorry. You missed something there.” Elio quickly removed his fingers. “I can shave you, tomorrow. I used to do it for my father.”

Oliver just gave a curt nod. “Okay.” Then he folded his paper. “But today, during lunch break, we get you some new clothes. You can’t work for me dressed in these rags. I'll take you to the Big Store. Have you ever been?”

Elio's jaw dropped as he just shook his head, speechless. Of course, he'd heard about that splendid department store on 6th Avenue, but boys like him were chased away by the porters. Rich New Yorkers didn't want their luxury shopping experience spoiled by emaciated guttersnipes.

To keep his excitement in check, Elio busied himself in the morning, scrubbing the kitchen floor, making the beds, even dusting a little with a feathered brush he'd found hanging at the inside of the pantry door, giggling because he felt like a maid, even jokingly curtsying in front of the large mirror on Oliver’s wardrobe door.

Finally, Oliver locked up the shop at noon.

“Ready?” He asked.

Elio nodded, jumping up and down, then blushing for acting like a child.

At the department store, people stared at him, frowning at the young man in too large boots and shabby trousers, without a proper jacket despite the winterly temperatures, his head bare, but as he was with his pristine employer in overcoat and bowler hat no one dared to tell them off. Elio's eyes almost popped out of his head as he walked the floors of the giant building.

Here you could buy everything you could imagine. And quite a lot of things Elio hadn't previously imagined at all.

After wandering around for ten minutes, Oliver took him to the men's department.

“No knickerbockers for you.”

“Thank god!” Elio grinned.

They decided on a pair of dark flannel trousers, two light cotton shirts, a gray woolen jacket and black leather boots. For good measure, Oliver also bought him three pairs of socks and drawers and a flat tweet cap with which Elio thought he looked quite dashing.

When he stepped out of the changing room and stared into the mirror he couldn't quite believe what he saw, tugging a curl behind his ear.

“I should cut them.” He said, turning this way and that. Clothes really did make the man, he had to agree.

“Don't. I like your hair. It suits you.” Oliver smiled, looking rather proud.

After he'd settled the bill, Elio felt the need to tell him: “I pay you back, promised.”

“No, it's fine. It's an investment in the pharmacy. I couldn't have you man the counter in your old shoddy clothes. Now, shall we have an ice-cream soda and sit by the fountain, watching the people walking by?”

Elio enthusiastically agreed.

He cherished the following hour. The ice-cream soda was delicious and gazing at the elegant New Yorkers – women in big hats, men in fur coats, children running around, the boys wearing small sailor suits, the girls huge bows in their hair - was great fun. An unfamiliar peace came over Elio as he imagined their quiet, normal, content, secure lives lived in the grant houses up 5th Avenue…

After returning home, Elio busied himself cooking dinner, desperately trying to avoid staining his smart new clothes by wearing a pinny.

Oliver arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment on it.

That night, however, Elio had his first nightmare, waking up in the small hours in cold sweat. He'd been running through dark streets, only this time his assailant had caught up with him... the last thing he saw was a blade glinting in the moonlight…

He had trouble going to sleep afterwards.

When the gray winter sunlight started seeping through his window, he quickly washed downstairs in the kitchen and got dressed in his new trousers and shirt before carrying a jug of hot water up to Oliver's room. After knocking once, he walked in.

Oliver was awake but still just in his drawers, chest and arms bare. Elio stopped short on the threshold but Oliver beckoned him in.

“The razor is on the washstand next to the soap,” he said, sitting down onto a stool.

Elio’s eyes briefly rested on the razor strap before he set to work, soaping up Oliver's strong chin before gently, carefully scraping it with the sharp razor blade. His hands were steady as he worked with the grain, just as his father had taught him to do.

Oliver swallowed, his Adam's apple bopping.

“Okay?” Elio asked.

“Yes.”

Elio briefly stared at the Star of David on a silver chain around Oliver’s neck and couldn’t avoid looking at his nipples beneath his coarse, dark-blond chest hair as well. They peaked in the cold air that also made goosebumps rise on Oliver’s arms as Elio continued.

As he had to learn the planes and bumps of Oliver's face, it took him almost fifteen minutes on the first day until he was satisfied with the result.

On the second day, he went up to Oliver just in his trousers.

They were quiet, these mornings, the only sound in the bedroom that still smelled of sleep and musk their breathing and the scrape of the razor. Elio stood so close that he could breathe Oliver in: sweat, but also something chemical that always seemed to cling to his skin. His hair was still mussed from sleep, not tamed by pomade, so it looked lighter, almost golden when the sun touched it.

He had beautiful small ears.

The hair on his chest was darker than his stubble and Elio wondered how it would feel under his fingertips.

His nipples were a dusky pink, unlike Elio’s which one john had once compared to delicate rose petals.

He had freckles on his shoulders, maybe from staying too long in the sun as a child?

His arms were toned, as was his back. His waist was surprisingly slim compared to his broad shoulders.

Elio truly enjoyed their morning ritual.

When he was finished, he went downstairs into the kitchen and made coffee while Oliver got fully dressed, joining him a few minutes later.

But on Thursday, Oliver suddenly held him back.

“I think we can remove your sutures today.” He said.

They exchanged positions as Oliver sat Elio down on his stool before setting to work on his face with a pair of tweezers. It just hurt a little, and when he was finished, Oliver pressed his handkerchief to Elio's brow, the white, starched linen capturing a single drop of blood.

Oliver put it back in his pocket.

“The scar is smaller than I thought.” He told Elio, his thump gently stroking his cheekbone. “Here, have a look.” And he pulled Elio up, positioning him in front of the wardrobe mirror. Oliver was standing behind him, his hands on his shoulders, and the stark contrast between their bodies was striking, making Elio tremble a little, his heart beating faster.

To disguise his reaction, Elio leaned forward, staring at his face. In the middle of his left eyebrow was now a small stripe of hairless skin, still a little red and swollen.

“Not bad.” He grinned, touching his face.

“Not bad at all.” Oliver agreed as their eyes met in the mirror.

On Friday evening, they greeted Shabbat together, something Elio hadn't done in a long while, with Oliver asking him to light the candles before he started singing. Elio listened to his deep voice, staring into the small flames as the ancient words washed over him.

He suddenly felt at home, anchored, as if he finally belonged.

The next day, however, Oliver opened the pharmacy as usual.

“I'm not _that_ devout. Besides, my work is permitted. It could save people's lives.” Elio had no qualms with that as he wasn't especially devout either. Though he cherished what little he knew about his religion.

Elio was quite complacent when he thought back on his first week of employment over a glass of wine on Saturday evening until Oliver told him: “Tomorrow I'll need your help. I have to go through my supplies and make an inventory.”

Elio took a huge sip from his glass. “Yeah, sure.” He tried to smile back but suddenly cold sweat was trickling down his back.

That night, he dreamed that his assailant finally got to him, cutting him up, leaving him to bleed to death on the sidewalk. He woke with a gasp and had to go downstairs into the kitchen to get a glass of water to calm down. 

That's when he saw a flicker of light from the pharmacy under the door to the kitchen. It was closed but after a moment's hesitation Elio pressed an ear against it, overcome by curiosity. He thought he heard Oliver's voice, and then that of a woman. But he couldn't make out what was said.

Elio didn't dare to open the door to take a peak but he wondered what Oliver was doing in his shop in the middle of the night. With a lady.

Oliver really had a lot of devoted female customers, Elio had noticed.

No wonder, the way he looked.

But at this hour it couldn't have been a normal customer... was he carrying on with some floozy? Or even a married woman from the neighborhood?

These thoughts helped Elio to suppress his fears regarding the upcoming task and to forget about his nightmare as he climbed back to bed. Bit they didn't help him go back to sleep.

The next day, after a late breakfast because it was Sunday, Oliver shoved a few sheets of paper at Elio, printed with lines and lines of long words behind which there were blank spaces.

Elio stared at them, his stomach clenching.

“Okay, lets start. This way you'll learn what we stock and where to find it.” Oliver got up, sounding quite chipper.

Elio nodded as he stood in the middle of the shop floor a few minutes later while Oliver was climbing a small ladder to reach the top shelf behind the counter on which he kept his huge jars.

“Basilicum. Looks good. Camphor as well. Ah, but we seem to be short on cocaine. Write down we need to order three ounces...”

Elio stared at the sheet in his hands, the black letters dancing before his eyes.

“Elio?”

“Sorry, I didn't get that...”

“Cocaine. It's under C.” Oliver was by now stepping down from the ladder.

“C.” Elio dropped the papers, his hands shaking too much.

“Are you alright?” Oliver asked, walking over to him. “You look pale.”

“I... I don't sleep very well. And right now I feel dizzy.”

Oliver touched his forehead. “Cool. But maybe this is still a consequence of your fall? Maybe you should lie down for a while. I can do this on my own.”

Oliver bent down to gather up the papers while Elio just nodded and took refuge to his room.

But he couldn't hide there forever. On Monday, after inquiring if Elio felt better, which he affirmed, Oliver asked him to man the counter while he was preparing something in the dispensary.

“You can sell the soaps, sweets and sodas. Just come and ask me when someone brings a prescription.”

Elio was good with money and numbers. The first customer required some shaving soap which Elio easily recognized because it was the same brand Oliver used. Afterwards came two little girls asked for sweets from a jar on the counter.

Elio started to enjoy this and relaxed a little when an elderly maid entered.

“Oh, you're new here.” She greeted him, smiling brightly. She looked very prim in her white cap and starched apron.

“Yes, just helping out a bit.” Elio smiled back. “What can I do for you?”

“Good lad. Now, you get me this for my Missus while I wait.” And she put a piece of paper on the counter, listing in curved script lines and lines of words.

“Uhm, okay, I think I have to take this to my boss. Excuse me.” The maid frowned but Elio was already on his way to the small dispensary on the left of the main shop, hidden behind a curtain.

“Here's a prescription.” He held out the scarp of paper.

Oliver was bent over his workbench but got up and scrutinized the writing.

He frowned while reading, then looked slowly up at Elio. Either it was something rather unusual or difficult to prepare, or Elio had made a terrible mistake.

Yet Oliver said nothing as he walked over into the pharmacy with Elio on his heels.

“Hello, Betsy.” The maid curtsied, blushing a little. “Okay, let me see what Mrs Frobisher needs today. Washing soda.” He took a cardboard box from one of the shelves. “Cough sweets.” He filled a paper bag from a jar on the counter. “Curd soap.” A small bar was placed next to the other items. “Rat poison.” Oliver reached for a bright red bottle with a rodent on it.

“Okay, that's 75 Cents all together. Elio here will bag it up for you.”

During this little demonstration, Elio had been blushing so hard he was sure the skin would peel off his face. Could the floor please open and swallow him whole?

Oliver held the door for Betsy, then turned the sign to closed.

Elio stood behind the counter, rooted to the spot, only too aware what was about to come. Oliver would think he was stupid. Oliver would kick him out. Because he was useless. So good-bye to a warm bed, regular meals, him shaving Oliver's face in the morning...

“Elio, come with me.” Oliver strode back into the kitchen, and Elio could do nothing else but to wearily follow him. Maybe he would at least be allowed to keep his new clothes?

Oliver was holding up one of the newspapers he used to read, pointing at the black letters on top.

“What does it say?” He asked.

Elio exhaled. He knew this one because one of the boys he'd shared with had sold them.

“The New York Times.” He said, feeling a little more confident. He could bluff his way through this-

“Okay, and what does this say?” Oliver pointed to one of the headlines below.

Shit!

Elio took a step closer, squinted. Blushed. Stared at the fucking letters and tried to make sense of them. Was that an E? And a P?

“Elio?” Oliver asked gently, after a minute.

Elio felt tears well up in his eyes.

“Sorry.” He whispered, retreating towards the stairs already. “I'm... I'm packing up, okay. Just give me ten minutes, then I'm out of your hair. I'm-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Huh?” Now Elio was totally confused. “I'm too dumb to work for you. So I'm leaving.”

Oliver lightly touched his shoulder to hold him back. “You're not dumb, Elio. Did you ever even go to school?” 

Why wasn't Oliver angry? His father would have smacked him around the ears for failing this simple task, probably calling him a useless mouth to feed, just costing him money.

Elio shrugged. Best to be honest with Oliver. “No. I told you, I had to work. We couldn't afford school.”

“Then it's not your fault that you can't read if no one ever taught you.” Oliver looked serious as he shook his head. “Listen, I'm also still struggling with English. So, maybe we can practice together. In the evenings?”

Elio slowly nodded. “Okay.”

Oliver smiled, then reach out and ruffled his hair. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Siegel-Cooper department store in New York, founded in 1896, was believed to be the largest in the world at the time.  
http://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2010/08/big-store-1896-siegel-cooper-department.html


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there's a lot going on in this chapter.
> 
> There will be some mild sexual content between Elio and Oliver at the beginning, just to warn you.
> 
> And you'll learn more about Oliver and why he left Russia.
> 
> At the end, we finally come back to the murder mystery.
> 
> Enjoy!

Reading was so fucking hard. That first week, Elio went to bed with a headache every night, letters dancing at the back of his eyelids when he closed them. But slowly he began to recognize them.

They started with the illustrated magazines Oliver subscribed to, because he figured that images accompanying text might make it easier for Elio to decipher the words. Out of morbid curiosity Elio enjoyed _The Illustrated Police Gazette_ the most. Its gruesome content fascinated and disturbed him equally.

Sometimes, he recognized a place mentioned in the articles, often somewhat shady establishments, and his employer listened attentively when he described the goings-on there. It seemed to Elio that Oliver was the first person to really listen to him and what he had to say, even asking further questions, his chin resting in his palm, his blue eyes focused on Elio, paying him his undivided attention.

Tonight, for example, they read about a knifing at a dive bar in the Bowery where Elio had been a regular. He’d often warmed up there, as it offered as much drink as one could stomach for just 3 Cents. This had got him through some nights with rougher clients, and once or twice he’d passed out from intoxication on the grimy floor where the patron had let him rest.

Oliver stared down at the paper, his hands playing with the cuffs of his shirt, and Elio got the distinct feeling that it made him nervous when he mentioned turning tricks. Yet he didn’t seem to judge him, or tormented him with priggish telling-offs. Elio couldn’t make neither head nor tail of his behavior, and that confused him. He was usually rather good at reading people. Yet Oliver was giving him a tough time.

A huge incentive of their lessons was that Elio could sit quite close to Oliver, their heads bend over the newspaper almost touching. Elio liked this. It was almost as good as the shaving in the mornings. 

And those studies weren’t a one-way street. When they encountered a word or phrase Oliver wasn’t familiar with Elio explained its meaning to him.

“What does balderdash mean?” Oliver would ask and Elio would laugh and say: “Nonsense, bullshit.” And then they would both laugh about it and Oliver would nudge his shoulder to move on.

It felt as if they were becoming more than master and employee; as if they were becoming friends in fact.

Elio living in a heightened sense of excitement and unfamiliar intellectual stimulation might also have been the reason why his nightmares became more and more graphic. Every night he was now tortured with a knife and slowly cut to pieces while fully conscious, yet unable to move or scream. He had to watch in silent horror as a dark figure slowly disemboweled him, sometimes even ripping his heart out and sinking yellow teeth into the still twitching muscle…

Tonight proofed to be no exception. It was so bad that he woke up yelling, then yelled some more when he felt someone holding him down.

“No! Get off me!” He fought and kicked until he heard a familiar voice gasp out in pain.

“Elio, calm down! Elio!” A hand slapped him across the face. He fell back onto the pillow, suddenly aware that he was crying. “It was just a dream.” Oliver told him, the single candle he was holding dripping wax onto the floor.

The sudden shock helped Elio to come back to reality. Yet he was still shaking, his teeth chattering.

“I heard you scream and came up here.” Oliver looked both tired and worried as he put the candle down on the chair next to the bed, then reached for Elio who, after a moment of hesitation, willingly sank into his arms. 

“Shhh.” Oliver rocked him back and forth and Elio reveled in his smell, his warmth, his strong embrace. The security he provided.

Elio outright clung to him, pressing his damp cheek against Oliver’s broad chest. He simply couldn’t stop sobbing and still had trouble breathing. When Oliver stroked his back he became aware of his shirt, sticking to his skin with cold sweat.

“Night terrors can seem awfully real. But you’re save here, you know that, right? I won’t let any harm come to you… Elio.” Oliver raked a hand through Elio’s tousled curls, still so long that they fell onto his shoulders. When Elio looked up at him he saw a painful seriousness reflected in Oliver’s features.

He didn’t dare to blink as their eyes locked. All Elio could see in the dim, flickering light were those pools of dark blue, surrounded by long golden lashes, staring back at him, and all Elio could think right now was that he would do anything in this moment, anything Oliver asked of him.

He didn’t even have to ask...

Two fingers under his chin tilted his face upwards, then the pad of a thumb brushed Elio’s trembling lower lip. In answer to the unspoken question, Elio’s shaking hands fluttered down Oliver’s back, coming to rest on his waist. He registered that Oliver was also just in his nightshirt, his bare, hairy legs pressing against Elio’s thighs, spindly in comparison.

He couldn’t stop imagining what he might encounter between them, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to ever sleep peacefully again until he had found out…

To convey his intentions Elio bit down on Oliver’s thumb with all the courage he could muster, watching his pupils blow wide, almost eclipsing the azure irises until they were mere fringes surrounding black, bottomless circles.

_‘See me, Oliver. I’m yours.’_

Oliver gasped at the scrape of Elio's teeth against his flesh. Yet he didn’t pull back. Instead, his free hand cupped Elio’s face, his palm surprisingly soft against his wet cheek.

Elio took this as an invitation to suck his whole thumb into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks in quite a blatant manner. Oliver’s finger tasted of soap and faintly of chemicals.

“Elio…” Oliver exhaled, his breath ghosting over Elio’s face.

Without releasing him, Elio kneeled, not caring that his shirt rode up as he moved, exposing his nether regions. On the contrary, he was quite aware that he was hard – and he wanted Oliver to know, too. To see. To understand. To take.

As he climbed into Oliver’s lap, he released his thumb, feeling its moist pad stroke the front of his throat, stopping to caress his Adam’s apple.

And then chapped lips met his. He licked stubble as he allowed his tongue to dart out in an effort to explore, but Oliver’s mouth was gone the next second as he carefully pushed Elio back.

“No. No, no, no.”

“Oliver, please, you can have me, take me-“

“Elio. Don’t.” It was said softly, almost sad. But firm. “We can’t.”

His rejection, betrayed by the look on his face, suddenly infuriated Elio. Because if he knew anything, it was that Oliver wanted him, this, as much as he wanted Oliver. While sitting in his lap, even for a few blissful seconds, he had felt his arousal proudly pressing against Elio’s stomach. He might not know much but he knew when a man was aroused. And Oliver was. Very much.

So why not do it?

To prove his point and determination, Elio reached for Oliver’s member, wrapping a hand around his hot shaft beneath his shirt.

“You feel that? There’s no shame in it. I want it too. Just-“

“Elio!” Oliver removed his hand with a steely grip around his wrist. “Just don’t. We’ve done nothing to be ashamed off. I want to be good.”

Elio huffed in frustration. “Am I offending you?” He asked, staring at Oliver’s broad fingers around his thin forearm. The physical discrepancy was striking, making Elio’s cock twitch.

_Oh, god…_

Instead of chiding him, Oliver just smiled before capturing his mouth in another, longer, much more tender kiss. When he pulled back Elio felt dazed.

“Better now?”

To his own surprise, Elio just nodded. The smile on Oliver’s face turned somber.

“Budge up, roll towards the wall. And keep your hands to yourself! I’ll stay up here with you so you might find some rest.”

Elio thought he should protest, that having Oliver in his bed, holding him, both of them just in their thin shirts would do nothing to calm him – but to his surprise he had to discover that it was the opposite. Oliver’s warm presence, his steady breathing, lured him to sleep so quick that he couldn’t even worry about having another nightmare. Or worse, a wet dream.

Elio woke up early the next morning, possibly because of the unfamiliar weight next to him. At first, he wondered why he was so hot under the eiderdown, only to gasp in surprise when he turned and found Oliver in bed next to him.

It took him a moment to remember. His nightmare. Oliver trying to comfort him. Their kiss. Their touching. Oliver gently turning him down. But obviously staying the night...

This was all a bit much. Elio had no idea what he would do if Oliver woke up now. So he climbed out of bed, careful as not to wake his employer, quickly put on a pair of drawers and his trousers and made his way down to the kitchen. He heated the stove and washed his face at the sink, all the while thoughts tumbling around in his head.

What had he done?

What had they done?

Why didn't they do more?

Would Oliver kick him out now?

Elio was pouring himself a coffee when he heard Oliver come down, already dressed but without a jacket and a collar, just in his braces. His eyes looked bleary and he had a cow lick at the back of his head, his left hand scratching the stubble on his chin.

Elio stared at him over the rim of the enamel mug he was cradling with both hands but said nothing.

“Morning.” Oliver greeted him, sounding a bit too cheerful, stretching his arms over his head. “You already made coffee. Great!”

“Yes.” Elio confirmed, at a loss of what else to say.

“Great!” Oliver repeated, then glanced out the window – in fact, he'd been looking anywhere but at Elio since he'd entered the kitchen. “Looks like a fine day. Splendid weather.”

Elio couldn't care less. But he hummed in agreement, still waiting for the verdict to be delivered.

But Oliver just poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at the table, staring into the black brew as if it could provide an answer how to deal with the elephant in the room.

When he staid quiet Elio emptied his mug. Turned to the sink. Washed the mug. Dried it. Put it on the rack. Counted slowly backwards from ten.

When he arrived at four, he sensed movement behind himself. Yet he didn't dare to look over his shoulder.

“Elio... I'm sorry for what I did last night. I was... it shouldn't have happened.”

“I just wanted you to know...” Elio whispered, his hands balled into fists on the counter.

Oliver sighed. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“I guess I am.” Elio closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow.

Silence. Then, not louder than a hoarse whisper: “Elio. We can't talk about things like this.”

Elio swallowed. “Why not?”

A sigh. “Because. Listen, you were still half asleep, you had a nightmare. And I was... it was dark... and your hair... you looked like a girl... all I wanted was to make you feel better...”

“You kissed me.” Elio almost spat it out, his ire and disappointment spilling over, making him reckless.

“Yes. I did. But... as a brother, a fellow comrade. To assure you... of my affection. Brotherly affection.”

Elio whipped around. “Brotherly affection? Your cock was as hard as mine, Oliver, so don't give me this shit.” His small hands pushed against Oliver’s broad chest.

Oliver took a step back, his face pale. “Elio, I'm a bachelor but I have... urges... like all healthy males... and you were confused. The life you've been leading... it makes you think these things are normal, but they aren't. We can't do this. It's... unnatural.” Oliver's face became a rigid mask. Yet his words were contradicted by the obvious sadness in his eyes.

“Unnatural? I'm not... It's not!” And with that Elio stormed past Oliver, down the narrow corridor and out into the yard.

He needed some air.

The cobblestones were wet with dew under his bare feet, but the sun (that actually reached this backyard) was already up, getting stronger, radiating the eagerly anticipated warmth of early spring.

Elio took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

What had Oliver said? That he looked like a girl? Ha! He grabbed his long curls with both hands and pulled until tears stung in his eyes.

A girl?

Maybe that was the solution? All Elio needed was a girl. Maybe Oliver was right? Maybe he had been confused, and Oliver's proximity had driven him to think that he wanted him when all he really wanted was a girl? Maybe the past years had made him think that he harbored these... inclination... for men when in fact he didn't? Maybe his shyness around them was still the result of having to listen to his parents copulating in the dark?

Elio had never paid it much thought. Going with men had been what he had to do... He didn't particularly enjoy it, though with some johns he didn't mind. Some had been gentle, tender, had kissed and stroked him. That had felt nice.

He pushed the thought aside that with Oliver last night it had felt so different from turning tricks. The sudden urgency to touch had been new and overwhelming – but surely misguided, he saw it now.

Yes, he'd been certainly still half asleep. And one was not responsible for what one did in one’s sleep, right? Right.

He should follow Oliver’s example and ignore what had happened, steering his desires towards healthier directions.

When he slowly walked back into the kitchen it was empty. Oliver's mug sat next to Elio's on the drying rack.

Elio opened a drawer and took out the kitchen scissors. No shave for you this morning, Mr Molotok.

Instead, Elio went up into his chamber and closed the door. Staring into the small mirror above his washstand he grabbed a fistful of his curls with one hand, the scissor in the other, took a deep breath and set to work.

Oliver didn't say anything when they met for a quick lunch of bread, cheese and pickles at noon. Yet he stared. They ate in silence, Elio aware of Oliver’s gaze but unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Can you man the shop for a bit. I have to prepare some tonics?” Oliver asked eventually.

Elio nodded.

It was a slow day. Oliver's lessons had already taught him to read the labels of most of the jars and drawers, so he felt much more at home working here than last week. He amused himself for a while with practicing reading Oliver's neat handwriting, rolling words like strychnine and thallium sulfate off his tongue. He was about to fall asleep, his head resting on his folded arms on the counter, when the doorbell chimed.

It was a young housemaid he'd seen once or twice before, with pretty pink cheeks, light-blue eyes and wispy blond hair sticking out from beneath her white bonnet.

She smiled shyly at him as she placed her order. When he wrapped the oxgall soap in tissue paper she remarked: “You did something with your hair. It suits you.”

Elio touched his short fringe, then tried to tug a curl no longer there behind his left ear. He smiled. “You think so?”

“Brings out your eyes.” The girl smiled back, showing her dimples. That made Elio smile even more.

“My eyes?” He asked, winking at her. That made her blush but she didn't look away. “Do you have a day off?” He asked. Now or never.

“Sunday.” He voice was soft.

“Would you like to... go for a stroll with me. In Central Park? On Sunday? We could get an ice-cream?” Elio felt very gracious, like a real gentleman. Oliver was paying him 1 Dollar a week atop of board and lodging, so he could afford a little treat.

“Maybe.” The girl bit her lip. “I'm Mary.”

“Elio.”

“Elio.” She licked her rosy lips after saying his name. “I'll let you know if I'm free on Sunday.”

“When?” He leaned over the counter, dropping the bar of soap into her basket.

“Soon.”

He was still grinning when the shop door closed behind her. See, that hadn't been too tough. Now he would do what normal man his age did. Walk out with a girl. Try to kiss her. Get slapped in return – if she was worth it. Then meet her again and hopefully be allowed to go further...

When he turned around he saw Oliver standing in the doorway to the back of the house, arms folded, his face hidden in the shadows.

“Better to have tried and failed.” He said, sounding a little sarcastic.

“All I had to do was reach out and touch.” Elio retorted before walking past him back into the kitchen. He had dinner to prepare.

After he closed the pharmacy that evening, Oliver was sitting at the kitchen table, poking around in the stew Elio had cooked with more anger than commitment.

“You don't like it?” Elio nodded towards Oliver's bowl.

“No... no. It's fine.” As if to prove his words true he took a large spoonful, swallowed it. “Delicious.”

They sat in silence for some more minutes, Elio being acutely aware of the sound of his own chewing. Eventually, he pushed his plate away and got up.

“Sit for a second.” Oliver said.

Elio sank back down onto the bench.

“Listen... I think I should explain something to you.” Oliver took a deep breath, a crease forming between his brows. He looked unusually haggard, almost haunted. “The reason I had to leave St. Petersburg was that... there had been a scandal.” 

It seemed to take Oliver enormous strength to raise his eyes from his soup and meet Elio’s gaze. “Pyotr and I met at university. We became... close. First spiritually and then... physically. We just couldn't help it, even as we knew that it was wrong. After we graduated he persuaded his parents to allow him to take me on the Grand Tour, to visit Greece, Italy, Austria and Germany. His family was wealthy, aristocrats, so he didn't have to work and could live rather extravagantly. Away from home and our families we felt so free, as if nothing could stop us or come between us.” There was an unspeakable grief in Oliver's eyes. “We were so happy.” He whispered.

“What happened?” Elio wanted to take Oliver's hand but didn't dare to reach out.

“After our return to Russia Pyotr's parents introduced him to a countess he was supposed to marry. Apparently, it had all been arranged between the two families while we'd been away. He refused. That stupid boy! His parents insisted. He refused again. They threatened to disinherit him. That's when he told them that I was his one and only love.” Oliver briefly closed his eyes. “They wrote to my parents after they'd committed Pyotr to an asylum for the insane. My father couldn't believe what he read and was about to challenge Pyotr's father to a duel when we got the news. Pyotr had taken his own life, hanging himself in his cell.” Oliver had linked his fingers on the table, his knuckles turning white as he spoke on. “I wasn't allowed to his funeral. But it didn't matter. St. Petersburg society is a rather small, incestuous group of people. Tongues started wagging. My mother got very ill. So my father put the alternatives to me: cloister or immigration. I didn't want to convert. So I chose to come here. But... I'm never going to get involved in anything like that ever again. I had to swear to my father on my mother's life. She wouldn't survive another catastrophe like this.”

Elio had no idea what to say to that. He felt a lump in his throat. Instinctively, he got up and hugged Oliver like he had done the night before. Oliver allowed the touch for a moment before pulling back, his face still white as a sheet, eyes red-rimmed.

“Let’s look at the papers.” Elio suggested, desperate to change the topic, to take Oliver's thoughts away from his gloomy past. Oliver seemed to relax a little as he took the stack from the counter.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s start with your favorite, _The Illustrated Police Gazette_. What gruesome tales of the underworld do they have in store for us today?” Oliver pushed the paper over to Elio, a false cheerfulness in his tone.

Elio stared at the front page, trying to concentrate to read the headlines. But his gaze was caught by the drawing of a boy, lying dead in what looked like a ditch. His eyes narrowed... No! That wasn’t possible!

It wasn't the crude image of the corpse, its belly cut open, that shocked him though – it was what the dead boy was wearing: some sort of floating dressing gown, printed all over with Chinese dragons.

Of course, the paper wasn't in color. But Elio knew that the soft silky material of that gown was black and the dragons on it bright red. Because he'd been made to wear the same garment just weeks ago.

It all came back in a rush: the bathtub, the dagger, the man...

“Elio?” Oliver asked, his face blurring before Elio's eyes. He felt something warm ran over his chin, dripping onto the table. When he looked down he saw blood.

“I... I've seen this before.” He stuttered, getting up to walk over to the sink, swaying a little while pointing at the newspaper with a blood-stained hand.

Thank god Oliver caught him in his strong arms as he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are not familiar with the sort of illustrated magazine they are reading, here are a few examples:  
The National Police Gazette  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Police_Gazette 
> 
> Those publications were quite sensational papers. Here's the British equivalent:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Illustrated_Police_News 
> 
> And now I wish you all happy holidays! Celebrate the way you like! Or just relax!  
There will be one more update this year, next Monday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio talks about the fateful night. Oliver has his own ideas regarding the killer...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update for this year!

“Elio, are you alright?”

What a stupid question, Elio thought, as he was clinging to Oliver, dizzy, his blood seeping from his nose into the white linen covering the shoulder he was leaning on. It would be hell to wash that out.

Elio groaned in response.

“You should lie down. Come.”

The next thing Elio knew, Oliver picked him up like he weight nothing and carried him up the stairs. Elio wondered if he should protest being treated like a wilting flower but truth be told he felt too weak. So he just hung onto Oliver, resting his face against his broad chest.

To his surprise Oliver stopped on the first floor and kicked the door to his own bedroom open.

“Sorry for ruining your shirt.” Elio whispered after Oliver had put him down onto his bed. The room was almost dark, the only light coming from the full moon shining through the window.

“Don't worry about that.” Oliver was smiling a little, dabbing Elio face with a towel and cold water from the washstand. Elio's eyes fluttered shut.

But then he saw those red dragons again, dancing at the back of his eyelids, spitting fire.

A blade flashed, reflecting the flames...

Elio gasped and blinked, trying to sit up.

“Easy.” Oliver gently pushed him back down into the pillow. Elio shook his head as if to chase those images tormenting him away but that only made the room spin and more blood shot from his nose.

“God, sorry.” Embarrassment battled with fatigue in Elio's voice.

Oliver just stroked his curls as he pressed the cool wet towel against Elio's face. “What was it that upset you so much? I thought you liked those savage tales.”

“It was not... Oliver, I think... what the boy was wearing... in those pictures... I've seen it before.” A cough silenced Elio, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“What are you talking about?”

“The dragons.” Elio blurted out.

Oliver frowned, reaching out to feel his forehead. “What dragons? Do you have a fever? Are you hallucinating?”

“No, Oliver.” Elio raked his hands through his hair, frantic to make sense of his tumbling thoughts to put them into coherent sentences. “The dead boy in the paper was wearing a robe with dragons on it. I've seen it before. Someone made _me_ wear it.”

Oliver's expression changed from confused and worried to serious. “Wait here.” He said as he got up. As if Elio was going anywhere...

Elio heard Oliver running down the stairs. A minute later he returned with a glass of water, an oil lamp, and the Police Gazette tucked under his arm.

“Drink.” Elio swallowed obediently while Oliver stared at the paper's front page. “You've seen this before? This robe?” He was pointing at the drawing of the dead boy.

“It's kind of a... dressing gown. Foreign. A bit like what they wear in Chinatown. Black silk. The dragons are red. The night you... found me and took me in... I was running from a trick. He wanted me to wear the exact same robe.”

“What? Elio, you need to tell me everything.” Oliver sat down on the bed, very close.

Elio tried to sit up as well but the room skipped sideways and black spots danced before his eyes, so he only budged up to make room for Oliver and sank back with a sigh worthy of a heroine in a pulp novel. “I got picked up by a man in a Hansom cab. He gave me something to drink and I... fell asleep.”

Oliver's warm thigh was pressing against his. It felt safe and helped Elio recall that horrible night. “There was probably something in the drink? A sleeping drug.” Oliver, the pharmacist, interjected.

“Yeah, maybe, but it was very late and I was tired and cold... anyway, when I woke up, I was in a room. A nice room, with posh furniture... and someone was next door. When I took a peak it was a bathroom with a tub... and the man who'd picked me up was there. He told me to take off my dress and put that thing on.” Elio's index finger traced the contours of the dead boy, his corpse surrounded by the folds of the robe.

“And that didn't seem strange to you?” Oliver's innocent question made Elio smile a little.

“Oh, I've had stranger requests. Once a guy asked me to-”

“I don't want to know.” Oliver cut him off, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Just tell me what happened that night.” He took Elio's left hand between his palms and squeezed it gently.

Elio stared at their intertwined fingers. It somehow made it a little harder to concentrate, but he tried. “Okay, so, it was... weird. I did as I was told, put on that gown, and he just stared at me. Then he said I should get into the tub. He'd poured some milk into the water. It looked... creepy, I don't know why. But I dropped the gown and was about to get in when he suddenly got angry. Like, really furious. I think it was because he saw my Star of David. He went bonkers, and I got scared. Then he told me to get out, threw my clothes at me. I just grabbed my things and... ran. Because...” Elio's voice had become shrill and now he had to force his last words out. “He had a knife, you know.” He shuddered as he remembered the strange blade glinting in the candlelight. “No, not a knife, something... Argh! I'm not good with words. It was... long and curved and looked hella sharp.”

Oliver just stared at him.

“You have to believe me.” Elio pleaded, feeling suddenly very small. He knew it sounded like a wild story he'd picked up from one of those gory articles he so liked to read.

“I do believe you.” Oliver said, squeezing his hand hard. Then he got up and went into his study next door from which he returned with a thick folio he browsed for a moment.

“Did it look like this?” He came over to the bed again, showing Elio the picture of a knife on one of the pages.

“No, it was longer.”

Oliver turned a few pages. “How about this?”

Elio couldn't avert his eyes, his body going cold all over. “Yes.” He whispered.

“It's an old-fashioned catling. And amputating knife.” Elio's stomach clenched. “Today the blade would be straight. It makes for a smoother stump. But up until a few decades ago a surgeon would have used something like this to cut off limbs. Especially field surgeons...” Oliver looked intrigued as his fingers touched the image.

“I had no idea what it was, but it looked dangerous. So I got outta there.” Elio stared at the bloody towel lying next to him on the pillow as he remembered. “It must have been a large house. I ran down at least one flight of stairs. There was a hall... a door with stained glass windows. Then, outside, a short gravel path... trees...”

Oliver closed the book with a sharp pang. “So the man who took you was-”

“-rich. Yes. Upper-class.” Elio nodded. He felt queasy. All those memories coming back... the iron smell of blood in the air, its taste on his tongue... “Oliver, I think I'm going to be sick.”

Thank god Oliver was fast enough to get the washbowl.

“Sorry.” Elio winced when he was done, staring at the remnants of their dinner staining the light-blue delftware. “I'm making such a mess. I promise to clean it all up.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don't worry.” Oliver touched his clammy forehead before offering him another sip from the glass of water. “Rest now.”

Elio took a deep breath, melting into the pillows. He must have dozed off a little because next thing he knew he blinked and yawned when Oliver handed him a cup of chamomile tea, smiling down at him.

“You have to go to the police and tell them everything.” He said.

Elio almost snorted his tea. “What? Are you.. I didn't even tell you 'cause I was afraid you'd kick me out if you knew for sure what I'd been doing. Can you imagine what the police will make of it?”

“Elio-”

“No, sorry, you might be very intelligent, Oliver, with your university degree and all your fancy words but this I know better than you. No idea how the Russian police would handle a case of... soliciting between men, but here you go to jail with added hard labor for up to twenty years. No, thanks, mister, I'm not digging my own grave. Besides, no one would believe someone like me. I'm a lowlife... a faggot... a fairy... a Jew... and a whore. Can you imagine what they'll do to me when I walk into a police station to accuse some respectable, rich, white man of being a maniac, an invert and a murderer of young boys?”

The look on Oliver's face was serious as he sat on the edge of the mattress. “Elio, you have vital information in a murder case-”

“But no one cares. Read to me, what do they say about the victim?” Elio pointed at the paper still lying at the end of the bed.

Oliver took the pages up, squinting a little in the low light. “_'An unknown young boy... presumably from the other half of society... a scoundrel, though it's still sad that he was plucked from this earth in the bloom of youth... yet already corrupted by dire circumstances and a lack of moral strength... meeting the inevitable brutal end that always follows in the wake of vagrancy and a sort of depravity we can't describe here'_.” He read.

“See. We are the other half. Corrupted. Scoundrels. We lack moral. We don't count! We deserve to be exterminated like vermin.” Elio had no idea where this anger suddenly came from but right now he got acutely aware of the mistreatment he'd suffered for years at the hands of the authorities and ruling classes. Policemen chasing him; welfare officers trying to admit him to a workhouse; shopkeepers beating him, kicking him out; obviously well-off people looking the other way when they saw him and his friends in the streets, tired and hungry, while they hurried towards dinner at a fancy restaurant, pulling their furs tighter around themselves...

But Oliver didn't seem to hear him as he read on, his face darkening: “_'...found hacked to pieces, his body mutilated in a horrid way, blood everywhere and organs missing, at the building site of the grand New York Library, to open next year to the public'_...”

“See, that's probably the only reason they're writing about it anyway. Because it's brutal and it happened in the middle of the city. If they'd fished the poor sod out of the Hudson no one would care.”

“_'The body had been badly abused and tortured. We can't give our readers the full details of the gruesome murder but it seems the victim has been'..._” Oliver fell silent.

“What?”

“_Castrated_.” Elio realized that Oliver's hands holding the paper were shaking while he was grateful that he'd already emptied his stomach.

“That's... bad.” The hairs on his arm stood up and he felt goosebumps all over despite Oliver's bedroom being cozy and warm. _'This could have been me.'_

“Bad? That's sick, Elio. And something you know could help prevent the man who did this from doing it again.” Oliver insisted.

“Why do you think he'll do it again?” Even Elio's voice trembled as he pulled the blankets over himself.

Oliver was intently staring down at Elio as he spoke: “He tried with you – but somehow you were not what he was looking for. So he threw you out. But he... still wanted to kill. Or maybe he needed to. So he took this poor boy.” Oliver leaned over him, bracketing Elio with his arms. “Yes, I think he'll do it again. I also think he killed and... did what he did... for a reason. He didn't just want to _kill_ the boy, maybe because he... didn't obey to his wishes, or to silence him. Cutting off a boys... parts is the ultimate humiliation, isn't it?. And if he dressed his victim up before... this seems too... elaborate, too staged for being random violence.” Oliver's expression was more intrigued than repulsed. Elio wasn't sure he liked his employer like this.

“What do you mean?” Yet he couldn't help it, Oliver's words also fascinated him, even as he didn't quite understand what he as talking about.

“It's too... much. I don't have a better word. For example, if he'd punished a street-kid for not obeying him, maybe his sexual demands, and things got out of hand... you'd expect someone with a broken neck because he pushed the boy down the stairs or slapped him too hard. Maybe accidentally beating him to death in a frenzy. And if he'd wanted to kill someone, why not just stab him when he has this big knife? Why... this? Cutting off his... genitals, making him wear this robe, disemboweling him?”

Elio gnawed on his thumbnail. “Could be a cult? Witchcraft? Black magic?” He'd heard people talk about these things. Rich men kidnapping boys and torturing them for their pleasure, drinking their blood in ancient rituals. It was common knowledge on the streets that these things happened. Everyone knew the stories.

To his embarrassment Oliver outright laughed, straightening as he sat back, throwing his hands in the air. “Elio, we live in the nineteenth century. Next year we'll see the dawn of the twentieth. There's no such thing as witchcraft or black magic. The free-masons don't cook little children and we Jews don't poison wells and spread the plague.”

Elio felt himself blush as he touched his Star of David through his shirt. “You never know, Oliver.”

“Elio, I'm a man of science. I believe in reason. Cause and effect.”

“But this guy seems pretty crazy.” Elio pointed at the newspaper again. “He was... mumbling all sorts of things. I met him, remember?”

“I'm not so sure he's crazy. Yes, what he does looks like the work of a brutal lunatic to us, but I think he acts within a pattern that means something to him. He's able to plan his actions and execute them accordingly. He didn't seem outright mad to you at first. So, why the repetition? If we could only understand him...”

“How can we understand him? He's insane and we're not, at least I hope so.” I really, really hope so. All this talk made Elio's head spin.

“He's not necessarily insane in as he doesn't know what he's doing. Look, his deeds might make perfect sense to him. Or maybe he feels compelled to kill but doesn't know the motives for his crimes. Doesn't allow himself to admit why he does it. His reasons might be buried deep in his subconscious.”

“His what?” Now Elio was at his wits' end.

“There are new theories about how our emotions, our thinking, our brain works.” Oliver explained in a steady voice. “That we are maybe driven by impulses we are not aware of or which we try to ignore. I've read a bit about it when traveling Europe,and Pyotr and I met a man in Austria who had some pretty interesting theories about the whole thing. Mind-blowing. It could explain so much. Why we are so sad sometimes. Why we can't sleep. Why we dream. It might be that there's more to our humanity than logic and reason, that we are all torn, disturbed, driven by unacknowledged desires.”

Elio still felt lost. “So you think something inside his... head tells this man he'd feel better if he cut a boy's willy off?”

Oliver smiled despite the cruel subject. “Not quite. Something inside him might tell him that he has to cut a boy's... testicles off for an important reason.”

“What reason could there be to do something like this?”

“That I'd like to ask him when I meet him.”

“You want to meet him?” Elio sat up so fast he almost dislodged Oliver from the bed.

“Well, not socially. But it must be quite insightful to learn about his beliefs, his ideas, as distorted as they might be... to get inside his head.”

“He's very likely just a cruel, crazy fucker.” Elio had met enough brutal men in his short life to know that it wasn't something he was keen repeating. All he knew was that he couldn't care less why men resorted to violence, he just didn't want to be subjected to it.

“Yes, maybe. But there seems to be method in his madness. He took you and prepared a set up... a bath. Special clothes. He made this poor dead boy wear them as well. Why? If I could understand that I could maybe understand... other deeds people call insane... Things that don't seem to make sense at first. It could explain why...” Oliver fell silent mid-sentence, staring into nothing.

Elio took the paper from the bed where Oliver had dropped it during their conversation. He stared at the drawings, frowning.

“I wish I could remember more about that night... but there's nothing.” He waved his free hand in front of his face.

“Not even the man's appearance?” Oliver asked, sounding as if waking up, curious again.

“I don't care about their looks. One john's like the other to me. I usually close my eyes when they... you know. They think I'm gone with passion.” Elio snickered. “But I don't want them in my head afterwards. I don't want to remember.”

Oliver gently touched his temple, nodded. “But... you know, with the subconscious I was talking about... we register so much more than what we are actually aware of, what we can willfully recall. And there's a method to unlock those memories.”

“I'm not sure I want to.” Elio whispered, not looking at Oliver as he leaned into his touch.

“Yes, that's another point. We block some memories... it's called repression. But it seems that those memories won't stay repressed. In the end, they surface, and that can be even worse than if we had acknowledged them in the first place. They fester like an untreated wound.”

His nightmares... Elio swallowed thickly.

“But I swear... I know nothing. No address. No name...”

“We don't need that. If we unlock what you saw, maybe it can help us in another way.”

“And how would you do that?” Elio was still skeptical.

“I've learned it when Pyotr and I stayed in Germany. They call it Mesmerism but it's also known as hypnosis.”

Elio started laughing. “Oh, I saw that at a music hall once. A fat bald guy hypnotized people from the audience and let them do silly shit. Like clucking like a chicken, or jumping around on one leg. He even made a woman start to undress 'cause she thought she was going to bed.”

“I don't mean something like that. It's not a fairground attraction. If I hypnotize you I might be able to make you talk about things you don't realize you know.”

“Ha, I'd like to see you try.” Elio grinned. This sounded like fun.

“Well,” Oliver took something from the nightstand. “Why don't you try to concentrate on this pencil here. Really concentrate. Don't think of anything, just breathe.”

“Shouldn't you swing a fob watch in front of my face or something?” Elio was still smirking.

“Just concentrate on the pencil. That's all I'm asking.” Oliver's voice was soft, warm. Calming. “Breathe. In. And out.”

Elio did...

The next thing he knew, he was blinking at the ceiling of Oliver's bedroom. He felt tired, a little stiff, a headache creeping up on him.

“See, it didn't work.” He sat up slowly, his grin becoming a yawn.

“Well, I have to disagree.” Oliver held up a writing pad. The page Elio could see was filled with his neat scribble. “Apparently, there was a lot you could tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a proper 19th century crime story if no one is hypnotized :)
> 
> The knife:  
https://www.kugener.com/de/humanmedizin-fr/chirurgie/50-artikel/2827-amputationsmesser-gebogen.html
> 
> Oliver is talking about Freud's 'Interpretation of Dreams' which appeared 1899/1900.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Interpretation_of_Dreams 
> 
> The "other half" mentioned here is a reference to the book 'How The Other Half Lives', published in 1890 by Jacob Riis, documenting the life in New York slums:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_the_Other_Half_Lives
> 
> **Happy New Year to you all!**  
Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sleuthing begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year to you all!

Despite Elio insisting that he was fine, Oliver made him go to sleep before talking about what he'd learned from the hypnosis as it was already very late.

During the night, however, Elio was restless, tossing and turning in Oliver's bed as flashes of dreams grazed the surface of his consciousness yet he was unable to hold onto them; they slipped through his fingers like icy water or patches of fog. When he woke up now and then, he saw Oliver sitting cross-legged on the floor, apparently drawing or writing something, books and papers strewn all around him, a candle burning by his side.

He'd taken off his bloodstained shirt and was bare-chested despite the cool spring night. The flickering candlelight made his chest-hair gleam golden...

Elio wasn't surprised when, in the morning, he found himself alone in bed. As he got quietly up, he saw Oliver covered with a blanket, dozing on the chair they used for shaving, his head leaned back against the wall. Elio smiled and was about to touch his cheek but then withdrew his hand and went downstairs to make coffee.

He brought two mugs up and only then decided to wake Oliver.

“Hey, good morning.”

Oliver stretched, blinked, eyes bleary; yawned. His back made a peculiar noise and he grimaced as he moved to take the mug from Elio with both hands, smiling gratefully.

“You're an angel.”

“I'm really not.” But Elio smiled back. “What did you do all night?” He stared at the sheets of papers covering the floor.

“Oh, I made some notes on what you told me. You remembered much more than you could let on consciously.”

“Really? Like what?” Elio still couldn't believe that this mumbo-jumbo had actually produced viable information.

Oliver took another sip of coffee before answering. “Okay, you told me a lot about the interior of the rooms, the furniture. Like, there were dark-red velvet curtains and matching wallpaper, a fine Persian rug with interwoven pheasants. The chaise-lounge you'd been lying on was covered in crimson chintz.”

“I can't... maybe I made it all up?” Elio was worrying his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger while listening to these extraordinary details he really couldn't recall.

“Maybe... but why would you? Then you described the bathroom: black and white tiles on the floor, a brass tub, a Chinese lacquered screen decorated with red dragons like the dressing gown... how would you make something like this up? Have you ever even seen something like this before?”

Elio just shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“You also told me about the man. He seemed not young to you, older than 35. Common features. Normal height, normal built. A mustache. He had a gold watch tugged into his waistcoat.”

Elio closed his eyes. Yes, a gold chain... he remembered it gleaming in the candlelight. The rest of his description he must have registered in passing, not caring enough to willfully memorize his looks.

“You could even describe the stained glass window above the front door. Here, look, I'm not very good at drawing but does this bring something back?” Oliver held up a piece of paper. On it was a sketch of a bird, flying up into the sky. It was bright red.

“I... don't know. Maybe. I just...” Elio felt suddenly woozy, sitting back onto the unmade bed. “It was red, that's for sure. I think.” He rubbed his forehead.

“This is a phoenix, a bird who rises from the ashes again and again. It's an ancient symbol for resurrection.”

Elio just shrugged. He didn't know about these things. Then he had an idea: “So we just have to search for a house with this bird above the door and we've found the murderer!” He bounced with excitement.

“Unfortunately, there are over 200 000 buildings in Manhattan. It would take us years to look at every door. And you described a gravel path and trees, so the door might not be visible from the street. But maybe we can narrow it down a bit. From what you've told me, the house was occupied by someone well off. It wasn't a tenement. It was a detached house, standing alone in its ground, at least two stories high because you mentioned some stairs. And it was very likely North from here, as you came running down 5th Avenue.”

Elio nodded. That made sense.

“Also, those Asian accessories sound rather distinctive to me. Like something someone would remember if they saw it in the house of a white man.”

“You mean, he might have taken other boys there as well... before me?”

“If he's repeating what he does over and over, as it seems, yes. I'm sure you weren't the first he played out this scenario with. It all seems too precise. He knew what he was doing. He'd prepared his flask with a drug, for example. Maybe he'd learned that it made things easier, and you wouldn't remember where he took you? And maybe he didn't kill all the other boys, that might have come into it on a later stage, so someone might be able to tell us more. I can't recall reading about such a peculiar murder-”

“Billy Wheeler.” Elio set his mug down onto the nightstand.

“What? Who?”

“Little Billy Wheeler was found a few weeks ago, dead. He was also a boy whore. It was said that someone cut his dick off. But I thought this was just one of those horror stories the boys like to tell each other...”

Oliver wrote down the name. “So, maybe there are more victims, but no-one is connecting the dots. Another... boy from the street. That's a start. Maybe a pattern.”

“What are you suggesting?” Elio didn't like the excitement in Oliver's voice.

“Listen, Elio. I understand that you don't want to go to the police. But I'm also sure that this man will kill again. It seems he... enjoys what he does. He didn't stop. He doesn't shy away from extensive violence. And he places his victims where they are found. He's not hiding them. What he does is important to him and he wants the world to notice. He's not afraid. He seems rather proud. This all is too elaborate to be random or a first attempt. So we must do something to stop him. And if we can't involve the official institutions, it's up to us to do a bit of sleuthing.”

“Oliver, that guy slashes people open with a scimitar!”

“A catling, Elio. I know. But what else can we do? Sit here and wait until he... how did you put it? Cuts another boy's willy off?”

Elio sighed, exasperated. Oliver might have a point, though.

“So?”

“So, we know he picks up... boys. From the streets. Pretty boys. So you could... talk to a few of your acquaintances. Ask them if they've ever been to a house with a red bird above the door and a Chinese screen in the bathroom.”

“Well, I suppose I could.” Elio said reluctantly. That didn't sound too dangerous.

“We also need to find out if the boy at the library building site was the first victim being mutilated like that. We need to know more about... Billy Wheeler?”

“And how will we do that?”

“One of my customers is a police surgeon. So I'm just going to ask him.”

“And you think he'll answer you?” Elio wasn't convinced.

“Well, why not? From one medical man to the other.” Oliver's eyes were bright.

“You seem to think this is jolly good fun.” Elio grumbled.

Oliver emptied his mug and became serious again. “Elio, I'm sorry. No, this isn't funny. This is... bad. Very bad. And I'm... I'm just so glad it wasn't you they found cut up in a ditch.”

Elio had no idea what to say to this.

“I'll get hot water for the shaving. You need it.” He ran down the stairs, almost fleeing Oliver's presence.

Over the next few days, Oliver read everything he could find on the dead boy – which wasn't much – then made Elio read it as well. They even walked over to the library building site to take a look at where the body had been found, though they weren't allowed to enter. The deep whole in the ground that formed the foundation of the new building was hidden behind a wooden fence almost ten feet high.

“How did he get in there?” Oliver wondered.

“We should come back at night.” Elio suggested.

They did. There was a night-watchman patrolling the street but he looked tired, cold and miserable.

“I doubt he's very alert.” Oliver whispered after wishing the guard a good evening. They watched the man turn around and walk over to the street corner where the cart of a chestnut vendor provided some warmth in the still chilly night.

Elio and Oliver followed the fence until they passed a make-shift gate.

“Must be for the workmen.” It was locked with a heavy padlock.

“Do you have a pocket knife?” Elio asked, looking casually left and right.

Oliver had.

“How did he get the body from his house to this site anyway?” Oliver whispered while Elio was fumbling with the lock, picking at it with the smallest pocket knife. Oliver turned his head nervously but the watchman had disappeared and there was not a soul about. “A dead body would draw attention.”

“True. Ha!” With a sharp snap, the lock sprang open. The rough wooden door creak when they pushed it ajar. “Come.” Elio beckoned Oliver to squeeze through the narrow gap into the darkness beyond as the street lights didn't illuminate the vast site.

Everything was silent.

When their eyes had adjusted to the twilight, they saw shovels and mattocks leaning against the fence. Everywhere lay sacks of cement, piles of stones, wooden beams. To their right stood a few wheel-barrows. They both stared at them.

“Do you think...?” Elio asked.

“Well, it's possible.” Oliver moved closer. “They are rusty and dirty. I doubt we'd find blood.”

Elio swallowed thickly.

They carefully walked over wooden planks marking the way all over the muddy site, preening into holes and ditches.

“Do you know where exactly he was found?” Elio asked after a few minutes.

“No. But now we know that it's possible to enter here. Easily.”

“Then lets go before someone finds us.”

Just as Oliver was clicking the heavy padlock shut again, someone called out for them.

“Hey, you two!”

Oliver froze but Elio had the presence of mind to lean heavily against him, shielding his hands from view. He heard someone walk over to them.

“S-sorry...” Elio slurred, grinning naughtily as he turned around. “Sorry Mister policeman, Sir.”

Thank god Oliver caught on and grabbed him, throwing an arm around Elio's shoulder.

“Sorry, Sir, the boy got sick suddenly. Too much to drink. Kid's these days.” He shook his head.

The watchman frowned at them, took in both their good clothes, Oliver's educated manner, then stepped back when Elio belched and retched.

“Get him home and put him over your knee, Sir, that's what I do with mine when he comes home hammered like this.”

“Good idea.” Oliver tipped his hat and led a staggering Elio away, who clutched to him until they'd passed the chestnut vendor and rounded the corner.

Then they both giggled like lunatics.

“So, you're going to put me over your knee, Mr Molotok?” Elio smirked.

“Shut up or you'll really tempt me.” Oliver playfully punched Elio's arm but then suddenly pulled him close. “You know I'd never hurt you, right? Right?”

Elio could just nod, realizing with surprise that he really, truly trusted Oliver.

Back in the kitchen, they both drank a hot milk with a splash of Brandy to warm up and calm their nerves.

“I was thinking... well, I doubt the murderer just carried the boy down to the site.” Oliver said eventually.

“A cab, then? Or a carriage...”

“He's rich, after all...”

“But with a cab, the coachman would have asked questions when he saw a dead boy.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he was stuffed into a sack or trunk. Or the man had reasons to be seen with a dead or at least unconscious, wounded child.”

“Reason?”

“Well, the watchman let us go because you seemed drunk and I looked respectable. We gave him an innocent reason for why we were there. So he didn't suspect us breaking into the building site.”

“And... a doctor, for example, could have an unconscious or even dying boy in his carriage.”

“A doctor, an undertaker, a welfare officer. He could even have said he found the boy like this and wanted to get him home or to a hospital... it just had to look convincing.”

Elio stared into his cup, swirled the milk around. It suddenly reminded him of the bathtub he'd very nearly been murdered in and he pushed it away.

“He didn't look crazy. He's... as you said, respectable.”

“And intelligent. You didn't sense something was off until it was almost too late. He's able to plan. He doesn't kill in a mad frenzy.”

Somehow, this frightened Elio more than imagining the murderer as a raving lunatic, wielding a knife.

Just as he wanted to say so, there was a knock at the door of the pharmacy. It was already past eleven, so Elio cursed. “What the hell? Can't people read? We're closed.”

But Oliver stood up and made his way towards the shop. “Go to bed, Elio.”

“You're gonna open up?”

“Might be someone who needs help.” Oliver looked suddenly impatient and a little nervous.

“Might be someone who'll mug you. Let me stay.”

“No, you go to bed. Good night.” Oliver was already half-way through the door when he turned again and said sharply: “I mean it. Don't sneak around. Don't... what's the word? Eavesdrop. This is none of your business.”

“Okay...” Elio raised both hands, confused by Oliver's harsh, hostile reaction. He even waited until Elio had started to climb the stairs to his chamber before he closed the door and went into his pharmacy.

Elio truly wondered what clandestine business it was Oliver ran at a side. Because something was obviously going on here.

They were lucky in so far that the next afternoon the police surgeon Oliver had mentioned dropped by to stock up his supplies.

Elio was loitering behind the counter, making a show of dusting the shelves while listening to him and Oliver talk. The man's name was Dr McDougal, and he had a strong Scottish accent that made it hard for Elio to understand him.

“Dreadful business, that poor boy they found. It's basically just up the street” Oliver was measuring some bromine in a jug, casually mentioning the tragedy.

“Yeah, and you don't even know the worst.” McDougal seemed very happy to talk shop.

“Oh, I read about it in the papers. It sounded horrible enough for me.”

“You mean the...” McDougal made a gesture towards his nether regions. “That wasn't all. He had strange cuts all over. And,” the man shot Elio a glance who busied himself wiping the counter, “there were clear signs of some sort of device, like a stick or a bottle” he leaned closer to Oliver “_depressum in ano_. Not necessarily _immissio penis in anum_, though.” 

Elio didn't understand Latin but his Italian was still good enough to catch the meaning of those words. He lowered his head, scrubbing at an imaginary stain.

“God Lord.” Oliver exclaimed. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Sadly, yes. There was a boy just a few weeks ago, found mutilated in the exact same way. And I remember a body discovered just before Christmas, in a graveyard, all frozen and covered with snow. Had been lying there a few days and the crows had gotten to his eyes.”

Elio went to get the broom.

“So you think it was the same man who killed all these boys?” Oliver was carefully weighing some white powder on a small scale when Elio returned.

“Who knows? There are so many unsavory elements in this city, with all these immigrants coming over here. No offense, but it's the scum of the earth, especially from the East. Jews, Turks, even Chinese. Shifty, devious folk, capable of anything, practicing strange pagan rituals.”

Elio saw that a muscle had started to twitch beneath Oliver's left eye, yet he still managed to smile politely.

“So maybe it was a sacrifice. Something satanic. He wore this strange gown. Chinese.” McDougal nodded, full of his own importance, while Elio swept the floor

Oliver nodded as well. “Do you know who he was, the boy at the library site? Was he maybe Jewish? Turkish? Or even Chinese? Or was he from around here? His poor parents.”

“No. No, he didn't look foreign. But also not from around here, no one reported him missing. And from his general appearance... he was quite skinny, though surprisingly clean. Small. Maybe about twelve but it's hard to say with these kids. We think he lived on the streets. We might never identify him. Boys run away from home all the time. It's a plague, like rats. But whoever did this to him was crazy. I saw the body at the morgue and it was carnage.”

“So you think it was a lunatic?”

“Who in his right mind would do something like that? The police is currently checking the asylums for any escaped idiots. And other places where unsavory customers meet.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You know, bum boys, fairies and other perverts.”

Elio felt himself blush and turned away, carefully sweeping the corner by the door. Oliver stacked McDougal's parcels and rang the cashier.

“Are there a lot of those places?” He sounded properly disgusted.

“More than there should be. I tell you, this city is full of unspeakable vice and moral sickness.” McDougal thanked Oliver before saying good-bye. “I'll be back next month, Mr Molotok.”

Elio held the door for him.

When the doctor was gone, Oliver looked at Elio.

“Did you hear that? It's getting even more interesting. A sexual component... Buggery. He penetrated the boy with something.”

“Yeah. So?” Elio shrugged, not overly thrilled.

“It means that your... connections might really get us somewhere. As I understand it, those boys would never talk to the police. But they might talk to you. So we have an advantage.”

“Those boys, as you put it... I was one of them not so long ago. Don't sound like you condemn them. Don't you enjoy some buggery yourself?” It was a low blow but Elio really didn't like Oliver's attitude he'd displayed with the police surgeon.

Instead of getting angry, however, Oliver just sighed. “Elio, I apologize if I sound condescending. I'm not judging you or the other boys. It's just... I told you, I'm interested in all forms of deviance. I want to understand... why people do these things.”

“Maybe it's because the guy is a horrible person? I mean, he kills boys like me so don't expect my sympathy.” Elio just felt fed up with all of it.

“Or maybe something drives him. There must be something to distinguish him from others. He must be... different because he behaves so differently. Intelligent. He might have actually killed three boys and didn't get caught. That requires skill and sangfroid.”

“I don't know... From my experience, they're usually all the same. Pathetic. Sad. Losers who get off on getting one over a boy they paid for his obedience.”

Oliver briskly turned away, putting a jar back on the shelf. “Anyway, we need to talk to some of your friends.”

“I wouldn't call them friends. We just... know each other.” Elio was resting his chin on the broom handle, gazing through the big shop window out into the street. It was a fine spring day, sunny and bright. Too nice to be talking about murdered boys.

He remembered that he had wanted to ask that maid Mary out. He really should do that...

Oliver's voice woke him up from a daydream involving a girl smiling at him, her soft pink lips promising many delightful things. “Whatever. This evening, we'll set out to mingle with the underworld.”

Elio rolled his eyes. “We? You'll stick out like a sore thumb. If you really want us to play detective, let me go alone.”

Oliver got suddenly serious, walking up to Elio from behind the counter, grabbing his shoulders. “There's a murderer on the loose, cutting up boys. And you saw him, you can identify him. You're not going out there on your own. I'm coming with you.”

“But no one will talk to me when I'm with you.” Elio protested.

“Then I'll be your shadow. But you're not going out there alone. Imagine he sees you again and recognizes you. Even with your short hair I'm sure he'll remember you. I doubt you'll be so lucky to escape again.”

This didn't help Elio to feel better. Because Oliver was certainly right. If the man met him again, Elio was pretty sure he'd kill him this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> depressum in ano – inserted into the anus
> 
> I cheated a bit. The cornerstone for the New York Public Library at Bryant Park, on the site of the former Croton Reservoir, wasn't laid till 1902. Yet you can already find it on this map from 1899:  
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1899_Home_Life_Map_of_New_York_City_(_Manhattan_and_the_Bronx_)_-_Geographicus_-_NYC-HomeLife-1899.jpg 
> 
> https://www.nypl.org/about/locations/schwarzman/facts 
> 
> For more on New York gay life at the end of the 19th century I recommend Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World by George Chauncey


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio shows Oliver his world...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, it's not yet Monday here but I'm watching Little Women tomorrow evening and won't have time to post, so I thought I give you this chapter early.

Before they could go out, however, Elio spent the early evening mending his dress. It felt strange to touch the frilly garment after the weeks he'd been with Oliver, wearing shirts and trousers. Weeks of regular food, sleeping in a warm bed at night, alone... weeks of feeling safe. Maybe even secure.

Ouch! His maudlin thoughts had made him lose concentration and he'd pricked his finger with the needle. The hem of his dress had been torn, ripped when he'd tripped and fallen in that fatal night that now seemed more like a dream. 

A nightmare. 

Elio touched his eyebrow. The scar was real and would stay.

He shrugged. Didn't they say scars looked manly? Would Mary like it?

When he was finished he held up his dress. Not bad. But he didn't have his delicate pair of dainty boots any longer... he'd lost one. He'd have to wear his new sturdy ones... he hoped he'd lowered the ruffled hem enough so that they wouldn't be too visible.

His hair was another matter. It was short now. But as Oliver sold all kinds of lotions and cosmetics, he'd also provided a hairpiece the color of Elio's ebony curls he could fix to the back of his head with pins. It itched but looked convincing.

Elio stared at his reflection in the mirror while shaving thoroughly – something he had to do more and more often – wondering what strange creature looked back at him.

Three meals a day had also left their mark. He had trouble fastening the corset.

“Oliver!” He yelled.

“Yes?” Oliver opened the door and popped his head in, his eyes widening when they came to rest on Elio in his white bloomers and chemise, fighting with the stiff whalebone girdle.

“I need a hand.” He was aware that he sounded impatient, not used to ask for help in these matter.

“At your service.” Oliver smiled as he stepped into the chamber.

Elio undid the ribbons at the back of the corset, then fastened the hooks at its front and pressed it to his chest. “Lace me in.” He held the cheap cotton torture device in place with both hands while Oliver started to tie it.

“Tighter.” Elio hissed. Oliver pulled some more. “Tighter! I need to look wispy. Ouch!” Elio gasped. Breathing had suddenly become difficult.

“Sorry.” Oliver's voice was a little rough. “I don't have much experience with these... things.”

Elio rolled his eyes. “Just pull it.”

“I don't want to hurt you. This looks very uncomfortable.”

“It is. I don't envy the ladies. But it has to be done. Tighter.” Elio gritted his teeth and stood as straight as he could

When he was finally able to only take shallow breathes but his pinkies and thumbs touched as he span his waist, Elio was finally satisfied. Yet he groaned bending down over the bed to pick up his dress. His vision blurred and he had to steady himself with a hand to the bedpost.

“God, I'm not used to this anymore.”

Oliver had a strange expression on his face. “Let me...” He offered, gesturing towards the dress.

When Elio just nodded, Oliver picked it up and shook it out, helping Elio to step into it. After Elio slid his arms into the sleeves, Oliver fastened the buttons at the back before tying the pink satin sash into a bow above Elio's ass. Last thing, he went down on his knees to sort the skirt and bloomers underneath.

“I could get you stockings from the shop.” Oliver offered.

“No need. No one will see my legs so it's a waste.” Elio looked down at Oliver's upturned face and something coiled tight low in his stomach.

Oliver got up and stood behind Elio, their eyes meeting in the small mirror. 

Elio smiled, swirled around. “How do I look?” He asked, jokingly batting his lashes at Oliver.

“Beautiful. Strangely beautiful. Like a creature from a fairy tale.” Oliver sounded a bit too serious and a flush had crept up his cheeks.

“Not too flat-chested?” Elio pushed his arms forward and together, trying to achieve some cleavage. A sad endeavor.

“I like flat-chested.” Oliver said in a low voice.

Elio giggled and punched his upper arm. “Now, lets add some embellishment.” Oliver had contributed pastes and paints from his stock: Creme Celeste to make Elio's facial skin look smoother, kohl to bring out his eyes, and rosy lip salve.

“What do you think?” Elio asked when he was finished applying the slap, turning around.

Oliver just stared at him. “It's quite... convincing.” He said at last.

“Thank you.” Elio curtsied and blew him a kiss before skipping down the stairs, his heavy boots making a loud, not very feminine noise on every step.

“You need to change as well.” He shouted upstairs over his shoulder. “Nothing too fancy or they'll think you're rich and bleed you dry.”

Yet his eyes almost popped out of their sockets when Oliver came down ten minutes later. He was wearing a simple white shirt, collarless, the first button undone (so some of his chest hair was visible), sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows, exposing his muscular, furry forearms; baggy, dark-brown flannel slacks; clunky boots like workmen wore. Over one shoulder he had thrown a thick tweet jacket. His blond hair was tousled and covered with a flat cap, pushed far back on his head. 

He looked... virile. Dashing. A little roguish even.

“Shall we?” He offered Elio his arm. Elio shivered a little as he took it. His hand looked small and delicate in the crook of Oliver's elbow

They hailed a Hansom on the corner, driving down Broadway, getting off at West 3rd Street to walk the last few blocks towards Bleecker Street. It wasn't the worst neighborhood, yet at night the area was populated by drunks and whores, yelling at each other or quietly passing out in the doorways of the small houses, only three or four stories high here, but crowded with people, a whole family living in every room.

Elio walked in front, careful as not to stumble on the uneven cobblestones, while Oliver was a few steps behind him.

Someone catcalled him as he raised his skirt to step over a puddle and Elio turned, winking at the man on the other side of the street. He made a rude gesture with his hand but Elio just grinned and stuck out his tongue, raising the hem of his skirt even higher, enough for the white cotton of his bloomers to show around his bony knees.

An old toothless whore leaning against a wall cackled. “You're a pretty little thing.” At the man she screamed: “Fuck off, Henry. He's too much balls for you. Why don't you come over and I suck you for 2 cents?” She opened her mouth wide, showing her almost black gum.

The man staggered into the middle of the street and Elio hurried to walk on. Better not get in the way of the real working ladies here. Their pimps were known for their lack of humor and their knuckledusters that could easily break your jaw.

_The Slide_ was located in the basement of an unremarkable building, yet it was one of the most notorious dive bars in Manhattan. One had to know where to look for it, but its regulars had no trouble finding it.

When Elio walked through the door a few heads turned but no one paid him much attention as he sat at the bar and ordered a beer – the cheapest drink on the non-existent menu.

He recognized a few of the other patrons. Some were johns, others boys like him. Elio nodded in greeting to another 'girl' at the bar a few stools down, a redhead in a stunning black dress, leaving her shoulders bare. She was called Emma, he remembered. She'd once told him a story about a trick asking her to piss all over him.

“Never made easier money.” She'd grinned.

Now she took her almost empty glass and came over to Elio. “Haven't seen you in a while, Heloise. Found yourself a rich backer?”

Elio shrugged. “It's not bad.”

“Then buy me a drink, will you.” She pushed her glass over at the bartender, a tall, tattooed man with hands as big as shovels. Elio nodded again and a full glass was placed in front of Emma, just as she gasped out, staring at the entrance: “Oh, yes, I'd definitely ride that one.”

Elio turned towards the door where Oliver was standing, looking a little shocked. He obviously had trouble to take it all in: the men dancing together to the off-key tune of the old electric piano in the corner; male couples in the dark booths, engaging in all sorts of lewd behavior. Those who were still waiting for a companion sat at the better lit tables, smoking, drinking, hungrily eyeing their prey (or in some cases sleeping it off on their folded arms, already wasted early).

“Who wouldn't?” Elio answered as his eyes followed Oliver walking over to the far end of the bar, ordering a drink. He ignored Elio completely so he turned back to his friend. “How are things going, Emma?”

“Slow.” Emma shrugged.

“Why?”

“No idea. Everyone's nervous, talking about some dead boys... and the police is crawling all over us.”

“I've heard.”

“Yeah, but we still have to earn money.”

Elio sipped his beer. “Have you ever met a crazy john with a knife?”

“All johns are crazy. Last week one just wanted to lick my boots. Another wanted to smack me with a carpet beater.” Emma shook her pretty head and her auburn curls bopped.

“I once had one pulling a knife on me.” Elio told her.

Emma smirked. “Really? What did you do?”

“I ran. I might wear a dress but I still cherish my bollocks.”

They both laughed.

Over the next ten minutes, Emma tried to get Oliver's attention but wasn't very successful. So when she'd finished her beer, she got up. “Better get going. Have to earn my keep. See you around?”

“Maybe. Take care.”

“Always.” And she walked out into the night.

During the next hour, Elio was cruised by three different men, all asking for some company. He politely declined, telling them he was waiting for his regular. Two took it with stride but the third started to feel him up nonetheless, his rough hand sliding up his leg.

“Come on, I'll pay you five Cent if you let me put a finger up your bum.” He whispered, his breath smelling of cheap brandy.

Elio became aware that Oliver was about to intervene, blowing his cover and maybe getting into a real brawl, so he firmly said: “You can do that for a dime.”

That was too much for the man, however, and he turned away, grumbling about the inflation.

From the corner of his eye Elio saw Oliver sit back down, ordering another drink. He slowly exhaled.

Around midnight, the bar got busy. The alley cats came in to warm up and Elio encountered quite a few of his pals. Drinks flowed as they celebrated their reunion, commenting how well Elio looked.

“I wish I could find someone like your john. Does he want it daily or...?” Rico, a pretty young lad with huge brown eyes, asked.

Elio shot Oliver a look. “No. He just likes to look at me.”

“Oh, aren't you a lucky girl! Is he at least ugly?” Jimmy – all done up in a green dress and straw bonnet, looking like innocence personified – squealed.

“Very. Old and ugly. And he has a small prick.” Elio indicated its sad seize with his thumb and forefinger, aware that Oliver was listening, straightening his back at Elio's words. “Tiny. I have trouble finding it.” Everyone screamed with laughter.

“Thank god. The small one's are so much easier to put away.” Lizzy – Eddie in real life – remarked and everyone nodded.

But as much as Elio tried – yes, they all had heard of some castrated boys, but no-one seemed to know anything. They had no idea who the latest victim found at the library site could be. None of their friends was missing, thank god.

“Maybe he came straight from the boat?” Jimmy remarked.

They also never had met a john threatening them with a knife or making them wear strange Chinese clothes like the latest victim.

One or two admitted, though, that tricks had asked them to put things up their bums. A candle. A pencil. Nothing too extreme.

When Elio told them that he'd been in a big house where he'd been told to undress behind a screen with Chinese dragons on it before getting into a bath, they called him a liar.

“As if someone like that would take someone like _you_ home!”

So Elio laughed eventually and told them that yes, he'd made it all up. “But tell me should you ever see something like it, somewhere. Please.”

“Yeah, when the Chinese emperor fucks me on his sheets made of pure silk, you'll be the first to know.” Lizzy saluted him with her beer.

Everyone giggled.

At two, the dive started to empty. A few whores had tried to make a pass on Oliver but he'd gently turned them down, not without passing them a few cents to get some food or a drink.

When Elio's eyes started to burn from the cigarette smoke and he felt more than tipsy from all the beer he'd had, he signaled for Oliver to call it a night. As his friends had left he went over to him and whispered: “I just need the privy in the back. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

Oliver nodded.

Just as Elio raised his skirts to relief himself at the pissoir – not an easy task in all his layers of clothing – he heard someone move behind him.

“Who's there?” Elio turned, a sudden fright creeping up on him.

Bella's golden hair shone bright in the moonlight falling through the dirty window.

“Heloise.” She greeted him. “Long time no see.”

“Bella, are you mad!? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Bella smiled a small smile. “I met Emma and she told me you're back.” She came up next to him, raised his skirts as well and took her cock out from the flap in her bloomers, sighing with content as she emptied her bladder against the crumbling wall.

“Not sure I am.”

Bella turned to look at him. “Done good, I've heard.”

Elio shrugged.

“I also heard you were asking questions about knifes, Chinsese robes, and crazy johns.”

Elio was done by now and dropped his skirt. “News travel fast, I see. Well, with someone cutting up boys... I'm just curious. I want to be save.”

Bella lowered her skirt as well, wiping her hands at the silky fabric. “Be careful, Elio. There are some really bad people out there.” She was suddenly earnest, a shadow passing over her angelic face.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just... there are people who like to hurt us. Whips. Chains. Cutting. They get off on this. Last year, some john tied me up and put a Champagne bottle up my tush. I screamed and cried but he just watched, didn't even get his thing out. Afterwards, he read the bible to me and made me pray. I bled for days and couldn't take a proper shit for almost a week.”

Elio paled a little. Just imagining the pain made him sick. He had trouble to even take an average cock. A whole bottle... ugh.

“Well, at least he paid me a Dollar afterwards.”

“A whole Dollar?”

“Yes, but I would never go with him again. I'm not sure it was worth the agony.”

“Was it... where did he take you? To his house?”

“No, I met him at the _Everard Baths_. We then went to _Paresis Hall_. Rented a room there.”

Elio nodded. He knew both locations.

“They do some sick shit there. I would stay way clear of the place if I were you. Now that you've found someone.” Bella pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It was nice meeting you, Heloise. Take care.” She turned around, waved and was gone, swallowed by the night.

Elio felt that he'd missed something during their conversation but couldn't put his finger on it.

Then he remembered Oliver waiting for him and hurried.

When Elio stepped out in the street, Oliver was standing under one of the streetlights, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, impatiently tapping a foot on the pavement. Out here it had also quieten down, with only a few drunks stumbling through the crisp spring night.

“What took you so long?” Oliver barked.

“Seriously, Oliver? I had to piss.”

“Sorry, I was just worried.” His voice sounded strained, hollow.

“I'm not your damsel in distress. I've been living like this for four years. I can fight back if someone gets funny.” Elio balled his hands into fists, putting them provocatively on his hips.

Oliver didn't seem convinced as he cocked an eyebrow.

“Anyway, I met someone.” Elio started walking towards Broadway without looking back. Oliver followed.

“What do you mean?” He asked, voice full of suspicion.

“He works under the name Bella. Very pretty. Blond. He told me about a weird john he'd had.” Elio shuddered a little as he recalled Bella's story.

In the cab back home, he told Oliver.

“God, the poor thing. What is this _Paresis Hall_ that he... she... mentioned?”

“It's basically a brothel. But for the better off. It doesn't compare to _The Slide_. It's all gilded ceilings and marble floors. Fake, probably. But looks very elegant. And expensive. The boys there cater to every need if you are willing to pay one Dollar or more. They have performances, too. Quite exotic stuff, whips, chains. And who knows what happens behind the closed door in the private section?”

“Have you ever been?”

“Only two times.” Elio swallowed. “My tricks usually couldn't afford going there. I wonder who picked Bella up at the Everard and took her there?” He gnawed on his thumbnail until Oliver gently pulled his finger from his mouth.

“Not very ladylike.” He smiled. “What are these baths?”

“Opened up a few years back. They have a large heated pool in the basement. We sometimes went there to clean up. And to turn tricks. It's a good place to meet johns. Everyone is naked. And washed. And they are very discreet.”

Oliver was quiet for the rest of the way, as if deep in thought.

Back at home, Elio poured himself a huge glass of water. His throat was sore from all the smoke in the bar. He stood at the the sink, quite aware that Oliver was right behind him.

Yet Elio jumped a little when he heard his deep voice: “Do you need help with your dress again?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, please.”

He felt Oliver's huge hands slowly unbutton the back of the dress and closed his eyes, shuddering when the thin fabric was pushed off his shoulders. When Oliver untied the bow his fingers moved over the small of Elio's back, almost brushing the top of his ass.

As elegantly as possible, Elio stepped out of the skirt. They were now so close that he could feel the warmth of Oliver's body against his exposed skin, his breath ghosting over Elio's nape.

“We should hang it outside. It reeks of stale tobacco and cheap booze. As do you.”

“You want to hang me outside as well?” Elio grinned, but didn't turn around.

“No. But maybe you should bath.”

Then he was gone, his steps echoing down the passage towards the yard.

Elio was unhooking the corset, freeing himself at last, when he heard Oliver return, dragging the huge zinc tub in from the backyard.

“Really? Now?” Elio stared at Oliver with a mixture of disbelief and astonishment.

“Why not? We won't disturb anyone. Put the water on the stove, I'll fetch some towels.”

Elio filled the biggest pot he could find with water, heaved it on the stove and lit the fire. While he waited for it to heat, he untied his boots and took off his bloomers, folding them carefully atop of the corset on the kitchen table. He was just in the chemise when Oliver returned, the thin cotton barely covering his private parts.

They had to heat three pots to fill the tub, and Oliver helped him carry them back and forth. To cool it down, they added another three pots of cold water.

“Get in. You'll need soap.”

As Oliver went over into the pharmacy Elio quickly got naked and slid into the tub. He groaned with pleasure when the warm water sloshed around him. The tub wasn't big and he had to sit in it, knees pulled up – but it still felt luxurious, a treat he seldom enjoyed.

He closed his eyes, resting his brow against his kneecaps.

Maybe he even dozed off for a moment.

“You're still so skinny. I can see every vertebra in your spine.” He heard Oliver say. Tired, Elio slowly blinked through the steam rising from the water. Oliver stood next to the tub, offering him a bar of soap. It was the most expensive one he stocked, from France, made with goat milk and roses.

Elio took it and slowly started to wash himself. The water clouded and the kitchen quickly smelled like a garden in late summer Elio thought he remembered back from Sicily. Here in New York he'd never even so much as seen a rose. Did they have them?

“Do roses grow here?” He asked, his voice thick and sleepy.

Oliver, who was sitting at the table by now, watching him, chuckled.

“Yes, there's a rose garden in Brooklyn. We can go there if you want.”

Elio nodded, meticulously washing his feet, paying attention to every toe. Oliver's eyes narrowed.

“So, I'm old and ugly?” He asked.

Elio grinned. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”

“The truth.”

Now Elio was soaping his legs, holding his left calve above the surface. “I did. You're older than me.”

Oliver shook his head but didn't really seem offended.

“Tonight was something else... I've never been to such a place.” He rested his chin in his hand, sounding intrigued but also a little troubled.

Elio thoroughly scrubbed his armpits.

“Do you not have such dives in Russia?” He was finally washing his face, closing his eyes against the soap as he removed the paint.

“I don't know. It's all very secretive there. And me and Pyotr... we had each other. We didn't even know that there were others who... felt the same before we traveled Europe.”

“Tell me about that.” The bar of soap was now bobbing up and down on the still wonderfully warm water. Elio's skin felt soft and clean. He wanted to stay like this forever.

“Let me wash your hair.” It wasn't a question and so Elio just leaned back a little into Oliver's touch while he lathered his curls, then poured warm water over his head to rinse, all the while talking about places Elio had only heard of: Athens, Berlin, Vienna, Rome.

“My mother was in service in Rome as a girl, before her marriage. She told me about St Peter. But the church she liked most was San Clemente. Even though she was Jewish, but she worked around the corner, and she gushed about the beauty of the building, the serenity it radiated. Its vault is made of pure gold, she said. It must be very old.” Elio mumbled, eyes closed, head thrown back while Oliver's fingers massaged his scalp.

“One day we should go there. I'd like to show you the Tiber. And the Colosseum. The Pantheon. We'll drink wine and enjoy the sun...” Oliver's mouth spoke so close to Elio's ear his lips almost touched its shell.

“And I translate for you.”

When Elio opened his eyes and turned his head, he met Oliver's, almost violet in the low light. Elio held Oliver's gaze, not breathing. His long blond lashes looked damp and his cheeks were reddened from the warmth in the kitchen, making his hair stick to his temples, dark with sweat and water.

“You're not ugly.” Elio whispered, leaning in, unblinking.

“And you're getting pruney.” Oliver stood up from where he had been kneeling on the floor and unfolded a towel, holding it in both hands. “Time to dry off and go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Everard Baths were quite famous and stood until the 1980s. They also feature in Faggots by Larry Kramer and Dancer from the Dance by Andrew Holleran.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Everard_Baths 
> 
> The Slide was a real place yet I cheated a bit again as it was already closed in 1892:  
https://www.nyclgbtsites.org/site/the-slide/ 
> 
> Paresis Hall was a real location as well. It might have closed in 1899. It's owner James T. Ellison will appear in this story soon.  
https://worldofwonder.net/lgbtqhistory-nycs-paresis-hall-shows-up-in-the-alienist-was-a-turn-of-the-century-fairy-resort/ 
> 
> Oh, and the rose garden in Brooklyn only opened in 1928.  
https://www.bbg.org/collections/gardens/rose_garden


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio goes on a date. Oliver goes to a bookshop to do research.  
Oh, and you'll find out what Oliver is up to at night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of blood/medical stuff coming when Elio walks into the kitchen at night. If that freaks you out better skip that part.

On Sunday afternoon, Elio waited for Mary at the corner of Irving Place and 18th Street. He'd polished his boots, ironed his shirt, and thought he looked quite dashing with his flat cap covering his short curls. 

Oliver had watched him prepare, looking somewhat amused.

“You scrubbed up.” He'd commented, raising an eyebrow.

Elio had shrugged. “One has to make an effort.”

“Is that so?”

Oliver's mocking tone still rang in Elio's ears.

It was one of the first warm spring days and Elio, happy to be outside, felt carefree and a little reckless. When he saw Mary approaching, he smiled and waved. She was wearing a blue and white striped blouse, a dark-blue skirt, a blue knitted shawl and a straw bonnet. Probably her Sunday's best. So she'd made an effort, too.

She smiled shyly as Elio offered her his arm.

He'd brought a bag of sweets from the pharmacy, peppermint rocks. They shared them on their walk up to Central Park. It was over two miles but neither of them could afford the Elevated, let alone a cab. The fine weather worked as a good excuse to stroll up 6th Avenue. 

After complimenting Mary on her look they trudged mostly in silence. Elio had no idea what to talk about with a girl, and Mary didn’t help by keeping her eyes lowered coyly onto the pavement.

From time to time, Elio pointed out a building, or a person, and Mary would look and agree with whatever he said.

By the time they reached Central Park he was at his wits end, sure that Mary would even say yes should he suggest setting free the animals from their cages in the zoo.

God, real girls were hard work!

They found an ice-cream vendor and Elio bought them each a cone. Mary licked at hers with visible joy after they sat down on a bench.

“So, how is he?” She eventually asked.

“Who?” Elio was confused but also glad that she’d said something of her own.

“Mr Molotok.” A flush crept up into her round cheeks. “God, he's so handsome. Everyone is talking about him, and not only us servants, mind. Even our mistresses fancy him. They make plans over tea when to visit the pharmacy to catch him alone.” She giggled.

“Well, he's... okay.” Elio felt slightly affronted, taken advantage of. Was he just a means to an end for Mary to get to Oliver?

“Just okay?” She sounded a tad disappointed. “Do you spend a lot of time with him?”

“Well, I live in his house and help him with his work...” And I shave him in the morning and we slept in the same bed and he watched me bath and washed my hair and one time we kissed and I know how is cock feels like in my palm... Elio thought it best to keep these details to himself.

“You must be awfully bright if he took you in.” Mary smiled, finally looking at him.

“I don't know.” Elio shrugged, scratching the back of his head. Better not tell her that he was actually just learning to read and write.

“To be so close to him every day...” Mary sighed. “Is there... you know... someone. A fiancee? A lady friend?”

Elio took his time to finish his ice-cream. “No. In fact, he's a confirmed bachelor.”

“Really? With his looks? I imagine there's some tragic story behind that... unrequited love.” Mary’s eyes glazed over as she stared into the distance.

_'If you only knew.'_ Elio thought. 

“He's Russian, isn't he? Oh, they are such deep souls.” By now, Elio was truly wondering why Mary had met with him and not Oliver. As if sensing his thoughts, she said: “Come on, let’s look for a place a little more private.”

The kiss, when it finally happened hidden behind a huge tree, was... strange. Not bad, but lacking... well, everything Elio had expected: passion, feeling, want. It felt more like an obligation on both sides than something desired or even particularly welcomed and enjoyed. Mary kept her mouth shut, and so Elio did the same. She only slapped him when he put his hand on her bum.

Afterwards, he walked her home, sharing the last peppermint sweets with her.

When they stood by the backdoor of her workplace she seemed to be waiting for something, and so Elio dutifully asked if he could see her again. 

She said maybe. 

He was home again by five.

“And, how was it?” Oliver was sitting in the kitchen, a book on the table next to a mug of the strong black tea he sometimes brewed in the afternoon.

Elio shrugged. “Nice, I guess.”

“You guess?” There were laugh lines showing around Oliver's eyes. “What happened?” Was he actually pitying Elio? Or just making fun of him?

“Nothing. We took a walk. Ate an ice-cream.” He shrugged, staring defiantly back at Oliver.

“That's it? Well, better to have tried and failed-”

“I kissed her on the mouth.” Elio blurted out, feeling angry and silly at the same time.

“Oh.” Oliver closed his book. Elio tried to read the title but it seemed to be printed in a foreign language. “Congratulations. She's making a real man out of you after all.” Cool detachment had crept in Oliver’s usually warm voice.

Elio took off his cap and sank down onto a chair with a sigh worthy of a man at least twice his age. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “You know... she's awfully dull. Most of the time she talked about you, in fact. Apparently, you're the crush of the whole female neighborhood.” Elio couldn’t suppress a grin when he saw Oliver blushing at his revelation.

“Oh my god.” Oliver laughed out loud, briefly covering his crimson face with both hands in embarrassment. “That explains… well, a lot.” He was visibly trying to collect himself. “I'm sorry to have spoiled your afternoon. I swear it wasn't my intention.”

By now it all felt just ridiculous to Elio. _He_ felt ridiculous. “Never mind. Can you manage on your own for dinner? I think I'm getting a headache.”

He exited the kitchen with a dramatic huff, making of point of slamming his bedroom door shut with gusto so Oliver could still hear it two stories down.

His strop didn't prevent Oliver from showing up on his threshold an hour later with a tray, bringing him cold chicken and buttered bread.

“I'm sorry if I have offended you, Elio.” Oliver apologized.

“You didn't.” Elio pouted, turning to the wall where he had been lounging on his bed.

He heard Oliver setting the tray down on the chair he used as a nightstand, speaking as if Elio hadn't said anything. “It's just... I was truly surprised that you asked her out. A girl, I mean.”

The silence lingered until Elio asked: “Why?”

As Oliver gently touched his shoulder Elio reluctantly rolled back around. “Well, because I thought you were... like me.” Oliver was staring down at him, intently. God, his damned blue eyes…

What was he getting at? Hadn’t he turned Elio down at least twice? And now, when Elio had finally decided to give the fair sex a chance, now Oliver Molotok had to look at Elio like that, in his bedroom, where they were alone with barely a few inches of space between them?

Screw you, Oliver!

“What do you mean, I'm like you? Do you think I... I mean, you said we couldn't... And with the other men... it was work... I didn't particularly enjoy it. I'm not... I'm not like you!”

Elio knew his words had hit home when Oliver's face hardened and felt an awful sense of superiority and satisfaction at having hurt his employer.

As if slapped,Oliver looked away, a small nod and a tightening of his jaw indicating that he’d perfectly understood the meaning of Elio's words. His hand reaching for the plate of food shook a little as he moved it into the center of the tray.

“Enjoy your dinner, Elio. Don't stay up too late.” 

The guilt and shame that washed over Elio when Oliver carefully closed the door behind himself made dinner taste like ash in his mouth. Half-way through he just wanted to throw up.

Instead, he curled up on his side again, hands pressed to his stomach, listening for the noises of someone moving about the house.

But all stayed eerily silent.

That night was the first this week that Elio's nightmares returned. Yet when he woke up, trembling and sweaty, he was alone. No Oliver was there to comfort him.

As his mouth was dry and his throat hurt, he decided to get a glass of water, quietly tiptoeing down into the kitchen. But to his surprise, it was brightly lit. Yet it must have been at least round midnight…

Curiously, Elio peered over the banister and around the doorframe, then wished he hadn't, stopping dead at what he saw: there was a woman lying on their kitchen table, which was covered with a sheet. Her face looked gaunt, haggard, with her eyes screwed firmly shut. Her skirt was hiked up and between her spread legs Oliver was working, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A steaming pot of boiling water rattled on the stove, the only sound in their usually so cozy kitchen.

Elio must have made a noise because Oliver looked suddenly up from where he was doing… something to the woman, and over to him. His lips were pressed tightly together, eyes hard and expression grim as he realized Elio was watching the whole scene.

Elio wasn’t sure he’d ever met this man.

After a moment Oliver said: “Don't stand there like a stuffed dummy. Wash your hands, then give me one of the towels.” Even his voice sounded different, curd, businesslike, as he nodded towards the sideboard where a pile of folded cloths lay.

Elio did as he was told, snapping into action, his mind totally blank.

“Use the soap. A lot of it.”

When he stood by the sink, Elio could see that Oliver's fingers were bloody. He could also see where exactly he was working, inserting what looked like some kind of tongs into the woman's most private parts.

She gasped with a mixture of pain and panic, her by now open eyes darting from Elio to Oliver, until Oliver said something to her, surprisingly gentle, in a language Elio didn't understand. She turned her head away but seemed to relaxed a little.

Elio passed Oliver a towel which he put beneath the woman's hips.

“Now, use one of the long pliers and fish the curette from the pot. It's the long rod with the metal loop at one end.”

Elio got hold of the device, shaking it a moment so excess water could drip off before slowly turning around towards Oliver who quickly took the instrument from him.

Again, he said something to the woman, presumably in Russian, before inserting the curette into what Elio only knew by the expression 'cunt' that he'd previously opened up with those tongs. Elio had to look away when Oliver started to move the rod inside the woman, scraping thick clumps of brown-red slime from her body, catching the discharge with the towel.

“I need another one.” Oliver didn’t look at Elio, just reached out his hand for a fresh cloth. As Elio handed him a fresh one, he forced himself to fix his stare at the woman’s hands balled into fists, clawing at her pushed-up skirt, knuckles white.

He didn’t dare to look her in the face.

Once or twice, the woman groaned, while Oliver worked in silence, his face a mask of concentration.

It took another three towels piling up drenched in blood beneath the table until Oliver pulled the curette out. He stepped away and said something, and after a moment the woman slowly sat up, lowering her skirt. Oliver washed his hands at the sink while she sorted out her dress before helping her off the table, steadying her with an arm around her waist.

“Elio, fetch a brandy.”

Elio did as he was told while Oliver talked to the woman in Russian, his voice low and reassuring. Bottle and glass rattled in his grip and Elio spilled some of the drink because his hands shook so much. 

Oliver made the woman drink the brandy down in one go before leading her towards the pharmacy, handing her some pills and more clean cloths as he unlocked the door. The woman said something, squeezed Oliver’s hand, wrapped her shawl around her head and was gone.

Left alone, Elio had stared at the bloody towels on the floor until Oliver came back into the kitchen, his face closed off and devoid of any emotion. Bracing himself for a scolding, what Oliver eventually had to say knocked all fight out of Elio.

“If you ever get Mary or any other girl in trouble, I hope you remember what you saw tonight.” Oliver sank heavily onto a chair.

Elio needed a moment to reply. “How can you do… this? It's against our faith... it's against the law... You just killed a child.” He couldn't take his eyes away from the table as he staggered backwards, trying to take deep breaths but the air smelled of iron and sweat, making him retch.

All Oliver did was to bark out a laugh, cold and humorless. Then he followed Elio’s gaze, grabbed the soiled sheet and held it up like a flag he was proud flying. “This, Elio, is not a child. Scraping it out of that poor woman isn't murder. Don't you think there are enough unwanted children in this city already? Didn't you even tell me that no one cares for you and all the others living in the streets, abandoned by their families? Well, you know what? I care. Therefore, I do what I can to prevent these unwanted children from being born to suffer. Better this way than have them die of hunger, or illness, or being beaten to death by some unloving father, or being smothered in their crib because their mother didn't know what else to do... How can helping women getting rid of an unwanted pregnancy be against our god? Shouldn’t her life be precious to Him as well?”

Elio had never seen Oliver so angry. He grabbed the table to steady himself, still warm from the woman’s body.

“Besides, if I wouldn't do it, she’d go somewhere else where it's a hot bath, a bottle of gin and a dirty knitting needle. What I perform here is much safer.” Oliver got up and took the curette, throwing it back into the still boiling water.

Elio decided he needed a brandy as well. 

As it burned down his throat, he remembered his own mother, prematurely aged by pregnancy after pregnancy, her babies, his brothers and sisters, dying one after the other. He remembered their small bodies, so thin and frail, their skin almost translucent. 'Little angels', his mother had called them. Buried in pauper’s graves, not even a stone marking their resting place or recording the memory of their short earthly existence.

He had to wipe tears from his eyes, fearing he might start to cry. “I think I'll better go to bed.” Yet he didn’t move. Suddenly, his small chamber seemed not very inviting. He’d be alone up there with his thoughts and memories…

“You can sleep in my bed... if you want to.” Oliver offered. “I'll clean up here.”

Elio raised his eyes to his face. “Let me help you.”

Oliver’s expression softened. “You’ve done enough tonight, Elio. Just go and rest.”

Exhausted yet grateful, Elio reluctantly climbed the stairs and slipped into Oliver's bed. It was larger than his, with more blankets and downy pillows. Elio sighed as he rested his head on one, smelling Oliver’s soap and brilliantine. 

A few minutes later, the mattress dipped behind him as Oliver got into bed as well. His cold feet brushed Elio’s legs and he apologized, keeping a few inches distance between their bodies.

“Are you still awake?” He asked after settling in.

“Ye-es.” Elio didn’t turn around.

“Are you still angry with me?” Oliver's voice was low yet echoed loud in the quiet room.

Elio took a moment to think about the question. It could mean many things. Was Oliver asking about what Elio had just witnessed, or was he referring to their row from the afternoon? As the latter topic was too uncomfortable for Elio right now to entangle, he decided to talk about the first. “No. I guess it was just the shock. Is that why... women come visit you at night?”

“I usually give them pills but if that doesn’t work I have to perform an operation. They are mostly Russian immigrants, very poor, and desperate for help.” Oliver was silent so long Elio thought he’d gone to sleep, but then he said. “So, you noticed women visiting me at night.”

“Yes. I thought... well, it doesn't matter what I thought...”

“I told you, I'm not a ladies’ man-”

“Let's leave it, okay. I understand.” Right now he’d preferred even a nightmare to another conversation about Oliver's... and his own... their inclinations. 

But Oliver still had something more to say. “It’s just… This is why I can’t go to the police, can’t tell them… about the man with the knife who attacked you. They might start asking too many questions. With these things I do it’s better not to attract attention, don’t you think?”

Elio just hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Despite everything, he had to admit that sharing a bed with Oliver felt nice. Very nice.

The next morning wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Was it becoming normal for them to wake up together? Whatever, Elio pushed these thoughts away as he made coffee, shaved Oliver, and after breakfast they opened up the pharmacy as usual.

Neither of them mentioned the events of last night, yet Elio couldn’t look at the kitchen table as he ate his porridge. He decided to scrub it with Lysol before their next meal.

Mid-morning, Oliver asked Elio to man the counter while he went out to a bookshop, returning an hour later with a pile of books.

“I'll read you some of these tonight. I've been thinking about what your friend Bella told you. About the infliction of pain, humiliation as some sort of sexual deviance, a path to satisfaction.”

Elio had no idea what Oliver was talking about. Pain and humiliation sounded not very appealing to him. His confusion must have shown on his face because Oliver elaborated: “Sacher-Masoch. Marquis de Sade. Ever heard of them?”

Elio just shook his head.

That evening, after dinner, Oliver cleared his throat and took one of his new books in hand. “This one was written at the beginning of the French Revolution. Have you heard about what the people in Paris did?”

Elio denied, feeling more and more stupid by the minute.

“Never mind. It was over a hundred years ago when the French beheaded their king to reform society. Smart move, if you ask me. It was a time when people questioned everything: traditions, morals, faith. And the Marquis de Sade wrote this book to illustrate these new attitudes and to bring to a head matters of destiny, fate and the question of what is good and what is evil, and how people behave when their faith and morals are getting tested, destroyed.”

Elio frowned, not understanding half of what Oliver was saying.

“Anyway, the story is this: we follow Justine, a 12-year-old girl, until she's 26 in her quest for virtue. She is again and again confronted with abuse masking as virtuous deeds. For example, she seeks refuge in a monastery but is forced to become a sex slave to the monks, who subject her to countless orgies and rape her again and again. In other chapters she gets humiliated and punished just because she wants to be good. You would think that, at least at the end, there’s redemption for her. But there isn’t. The meek don't inherit the earth in de Sade's world. From his name, and the sexual acts he describes, who are often painful, derives the word sadism for this sort of sexual encounters and preferences.”

Elio shuddered a little. He might lack the historical knowledge, but he certainly had experience with men getting off on hurting and humiliating him; spanking him; calling him a dirty whore; holding him down as they tried to-

“Listen,” Oliver cleared his throat. “Justine is working in the household of a surgeon, and overhears this conversation while she knows a young girl is trapped in the cellar:_ ‘It is a part of the anatomy,’ said one, ‘which will never be properly understood until it has been examined with the greatest exactness in a subject aged 12 or 13 who is cut open at the precise moment pain makes contact with the nerves. It is odious that considerations of a piddling sort should impede the progress of science the way they do. She would be one subject sacrificed to save millions: can we afford to wonder whether we should pay such a price? Is the murder which is sanctioned by law of a different nature to the kind which we are about to commit in our operation? Is not the whole point of the wise laws which permit capital punishment that one life should be sacrificed to save a thousand others? So let no such reservations stand in our way.'_” Oliver looked up from the page. “They want to do some wicked experiment on the poor girl. Justine helps her to escape but is branded with a hot iron like a whore when she's found out.”

Elio swallowed. “I don't think I like this book very much.”

“Yet many find reading about these things rather titillating, maybe because fantasies like this violate everything what is regarded good and proper.”

“Cutting up 12 year olds is sick.” Elio snapped.

“Yes, but remember what our murderer does? Maybe it’s an experiment to him? And the boys are his guinea pigs.”

Elio thought about that, chewing at his lower lip. “You think he's read this stuff?”

“Maybe he did even more than read it. Maybe he thinks it's some sort of... gospel? Or an assignment? A task? He might think of himself as on an amoral crusade.” Something stirred in Elio’s memory… he thought he remembered some words the man had said that night, but the sensation was too fleeting to recall.

“I never understood why some johns get off on whipping or beating.” 

Oliver made a strangled sound. “Did they… did you…? Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

Elio shrugged. “It’s okay. It didn’t happen often. They usually paid well.”

They were both silent for a moment until Elio dared to ask: “Though it’s weird to me… I mean, there also are those who like it the other way around. You know? Asking me to spit on them or… call them names. Walk over them in my boots. I often felt ridiculous. I mean, it's easy money, but what does it give to them?”

Oliver held up another volume. “Well, maybe this one will answer your question: Venus in Furs. It's the story of a man who wants to be a woman's slave, wants to be humiliated. And she, at first not understanding why, humors him until she finds pleasure in this dynamic as well. At the beginning, the narrator is talking to the goddess Venus about love. _'I will not reproach you with anything. You are a divine woman, but nevertheless a woman, and like every woman cruel in love.' 'What you call cruel,' the goddess of love replied eagerly, 'is simply the element of passion and of natural love, which is woman's nature and makes her give herself where she loves, and makes her love everything, that pleases her.'_"

“I think I like this more than the other stuff.” Elio said.

“Listen what his mistress does to him.” Oliver turned a few pages:

“_'Give me the whip.'_  
_I looked about the room._  
_'No,' she exclaimed, 'stay as you are, kneeling.' She went over to the fire-place, took the whip from the mantle-piece, and, watching me with a smile, let it hiss through the air; then she slowly rolled up the sleeve of her fur-jacket._  
_'Marvellous woman!' I exclaimed._  
_'Silence, slave!' She suddenly scowled, looked savage, and struck me with the whip. _  
_'Whip me,' I begged, 'whip me without mercy.'_  
_Wanda swung the whip, and hit me twice. 'Are you satisfied now?'_  
_'No.'_  
_'Seriously, no?'_  
_'Whip me, I beg you, it is a joy to me.'_"

Elio felt himself flush, going hot all over without knowing why. He was grateful that Oliver was still looking at the book. 

“You see, there are people who enjoy these things: whipping, cutting, branding, other ghastly violent acts.”

“But why?” Elio murmured.

“To... feel.”

“But... pain just hurts.”

“Ah, but pain is also something the body instantly reacts to, without hesitation, without deceit. Pain is truth. So there are two sides to it. As there are at least two people needed for such a scenario. One receiving – and one giving, one inflicting the punishment, the other taking it, the pain connecting them.” Oliver’s eyes were dark when he looked up at Elio. “It's certainly not for everyone. But it seems our murderer is into inflicting pain, maybe tortures his victims, going by what McDougal told us. And by what you told me, that is also what excites the men frequenting _Paresis Hall_. So when we go there-”

“Wait, we're going there?”

“But of course. You know, I think _The Slide_ was very... illuminating. But if our murderer belongs to the upper classes, I'm pretty sure he visits a little more exclusive establishments catering to his special predilections. Or has done so... until his needs and tastes... escalated.”

Somehow, Elio had the feeling that Oliver was holding something back. “So, you want us to go there and join their orgies?” Was that the reason Oliver was introducing him to all of this, reading him these books?

“Well, we have to blend in.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Elio felt sweat break out on his back.

“I'll be the master, you'll be my slave.” Oliver held his gaze, looking totally unfazed by what he was proposing.

An unfamiliar tingle started low in Elio's belly.

“I'll be your slave?”

“But of course. I mean, look at us. It would only seem natural, you being young and fey... of course, I won't whip you or anything. I promise. This is just going to be a disguise.”

His assurance should have calmed Elio, but strangely, it didn't.

“What would this disguise involve precisely?” His throat felt suddenly a little dry.

“I haven't thought about it much...” Somehow Elio had the distinct feeling that Oliver was lying.

“Shouldn't I be the one in charge and you my slave?” Elio had no idea where these words came from. “I mean, at least I’ve been to such… orgies. Well, not literally, but I’m sure I have much more experience with these things than you.”

It looked for a moment as if Oliver wanted to object but in the end he stayed silent, lowering his gaze again. The tingle in Elio’s stomach intensified.

“Let me mull this over. We don’t have to decide tonight.”

Elio rose to do the dishes. “Of course.” He was quite aware that Oliver was staring at his back for a long while until he finally rose and went upstairs, not to be seen again that evening.

Just as he was about to climb the stairs to his chamber, Elio saw that Oliver had taken the Sacher-Masoch book with him, leaving _Justine_ on the kitchen table. Elio wondered if he should pick it up, but in the end decided against it.

He'd lost his faith in virtue a long while ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since 1872, performing abortions was illegal in New York. Oliver could have faced a punishment from 4-20 years in prison. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abortion_in_New_York  
Fun fact: Armie’s great-great-grandfather Julius Hammer was convicted of performing an abortion in 1920 and sentenced to 3,5 years in Sing Sing (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armand_Hammer)
> 
> If you want to read up for yourself:  
Justine  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Justine_(de_Sade_novel)  
Text: https://todhartman.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/marquis-de-sade-justine-or-the-misfortunes-of-virtue.pdf
> 
> Venus in Furs  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_in_Furs  
Text: http://www.publicbookshelf.com/historical/venus-furs/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More reading. And more undercover sleuthing...

_Paresis Hall_ wasn’t the real name of the place, and neither was it a hall. The famous bar-cum-brothel was housed in a narrow three story building at Cooper Square, originally called _Columbia Hall_. But in the vernacular the reference to syphilis had stuck.

Elio explained as much to Oliver as they made their way to its entrance on a Tuesday night a week after Oliver had first suggested a visit, walking beneath the stilts on which the Elevated rattled above their heads. At this time of night, the square was populated with all kinds of people speaking Yiddish, Russian, Italian, German and even occasionally English. The theaters had just finished and now everyone was making their way towards a bar of their liking while around the corner a queue of young men had formed, waiting to be admitted to a shelter for the night.

Elio remembered having stood in that line as well. Thank god these dire circumstances were now past him – at least for the time being.

Over the last week, he’d applied his new reading skills to books Oliver had recommended him. De Sade had disturbed him, as had Sacher-Masoch, but for different reasons. One book seemed to praise being evil while the other made that evil look like mercy to some.

It had confused Elio.

So he had asked Oliver for an explanation how people could like these things. Because he had never felt particularly good when spanking a john – it had just been easy money – and neither had being spanked or worse caused him anything but pain.

Yet reading some of those fantasies of brutal torture and submission had made his face grow hot both with shame and arousal.

“For many, it’s not about the actual physical agony, it’s the humiliation.” Oliver had explained to him. And for sure, Elio had felt embarrassed that these things could make him hard. But it hadn’t stopped him from succumbing to self-pleasuring.

He knows it's a bad thing to do. He knows he could lose all his teeth and hair if he gives in to this form of sin, could go blind or grow a hunchback. He's aware that a man has only so many loads to shoot and that wasting them like this means he'd run dry prematurely – but what can he do? Most nights his balls felt like bursting. That couldn't be healthy either.

And despite his resolution to fixate on the fairer sex, he hadn’t thought about Mary when he’d stroked himself. To his even greater humiliation it had been Oliver’s body his mind had provided as a willing participant in these sordid fantasies.

At least those dreams - in which Oliver had either put him over his knee or alternately had knelt at Elio’s feet, looking up at him with wide, dark-blue eyes - were preferable to his nightmares of being cut up by a stranger.

Yet they made Elio nervous. One morning, his hands had shaken so badly when he’d stared at Oliver’s naked torso while shaving him, remembering that last night he’d dreamed to burn him with a white-hot poker, relishing in his screams, that he’d cut Oliver’s cheek.

He’d apologized profusely and quickly stilled the bleeding while Oliver had assured him that no harm had been done. Still, seeing blood drip from Oliver’s face had disturbed Elio even more.

That night, when he’d been sure that Oliver was asleep, he’d sneaked into his study, where Elio knew Oliver used to read after he’d retired from the kitchen. The room had smelled of tobacco, leather and Oliver's slightly chemical stench. As the fire in the grate had burned down Elio had shivered as he’d bend over Oliver’s desk, the flickering light of his single candle wandering over the spines of books piled up there.

One title had immediately caught Elio’s eye: _‘Psychopathia Sexualis, with Special Reference to the Antipathic Sexual Instinct: A Medico-Forensic Study’_.

Elio had no idea what an antipathetic instinct was, nor what medico-forensic meant. But the word sexualis had jumped out to him. In the hope to find some answers to his rather pressing questions, he'd taken the book in hand, sat down on the rug, and opened it.

The language had been much too complicated for Elio, littered with terminology that had made his head hurt. What the hell were cerebral neuroses or hyperaesthesia? Yet what had helped him was that the writer seemed to have collected cases that he described in more common terms. _‘Flagellation of boys’_ – now that was something Elio was familiar with. Only, he’d always thought of it as a strange way for some people to have fun, to get off. Now he discovered that it seemed to be a field of science, serious study and research by learned men…

Another chapter had been titled_ ‘Maltreatment and humiliation invited for the purpose of sexual gratification’_. With trembling fingers Elio had skipped to page 132. There, he'd read up on one case after the other of young men wanting to be degraded in many ways, not just by being beaten, or to serve someone as a slave.

As he'd absentmindedly gnawed on his bottom lip it had become clear to him that these things that men had wanted from him or had done to him were rather widespread; they must be if someone wrote a whole book about them. 

So maybe it wasn't that sick what he himself felt sometimes?

Those fantasies or experiences described on these pages were rather elaborate and detailed. Some had left Elio cold but others made him flush, causing that tingle in his nether regions he'd first experienced when talking to Oliver a few days ago in the kitchen about de Sade and Sacher-Masoch. 

It had felt somewhat reassuring that he didn't seem to be alone with this feeling.

Yet after a while, Elio’s head had been swimming. Many parts of the book were written in Latin, and as Elio might understand a bit when he heard it, reading it had been much more tricky and exhausting.

But then he’d discovered the illustrations. There weren’t many, but most showed men wearing women’s underwear. In two others, a man was kneeling on the floor while a woman was beating him with what looked like a riding crop…

Elio had stared, and stared some more. Had he looked like these men when dressed up as a girl? He'd suddenly remembered one john asking if he could take a photograph of him but Elio had declined. He'd cringed thinking about visiting a seedy photographer, getting his gear off in his back-chamber. Who knew what else these men would’ve done to him?

But here, in this book, were men who did the same as he’d done. And they seemed to enjoy it. They were not dressing up out of necessity to earn a living… but because they wanted to, proudly smiling at the camera.

Just as Elio had been about to close the book, he’d stumbled over another headline: _‘Sadistic lustmurder’_. What he'd read under that section had frozen the blood in his veins: _‘…to subdue absolutely the object of desire, even to destroy and kill it.’ _

While leafing through the next pages, Elio had read about murderers called Rippers, who'd brutally cut up their victims like butchers did with livestock. This had finally been enough for him. 

He'd crawled into his bed, rubbing his cold feet together to warm them up. When he'd finally fallen asleep, those cases had given him a very vivid nightmare, from which he'd woken up drenched in sweat.

This time, however, Oliver had again been standing by the door to his chamber, but he'd seemed to hesitate as if afraid to come in, the candle in his hand throwing eerie shadows all over the walls.

Elio had tried to curl up further under the covers, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Elio? Another nightmare?” Oliver's voice had been full of compassion.

He’d just nodded.

“I thought things were getting better…” Oliver had wondered.

True, he didn't have a nightmare since the night he'd gone downstairs... And hadn’t it been his own fault that his frights had returned tonight? If he hadn’t been snooping, reading about all these horrible things…

“Do you need anything?” Oliver had asked, hovering in the doorframe as if not daring to cross the threshold.

_‘Just hold me’_, Elio had wanted to say, _‘make these thoughts and images in my head go away.’_ But instead he’d just shaken his head and Oliver had left him a moment later, after one last long glance.

The next day, Elio had stayed in bed with a grueling headache.

Only on Friday, after celebrating Shabbat, had Oliver brought their quest up again.

“I know it distresses you, but I really think we need to go to this place, _Paresis Hall_.”

Elio had carefully swallowed another spoonful of soup before answering: “So, have you decided on our roles yet?”

“I have.” Oliver had stared down into his own bowl as if fascinated by the leek and potatoes swimming in a clear broth. “As you're the one more familiar with all of this, the codes, the behavior, I think it makes sense that you'll perform the more... active part.” He'd smoothed his napkin before dunking another slice of bread into the stew.

“So you'll be my slave.” Elio had smirked.

“If you want to put it like that. But don't get any ideas, Elio. It's just for one night.” An almost shy grin had spread on Oliver's face.

“What, will my dress suddenly turn into rags when the clock strikes midnight, like in the fairy tale?”

“No dress this time. If the murderer is there, I don't want him to recognize you. I want you to wear something else.”

“Oh. But... I don't have anything else... nothing elegant, that is.”

“I'll take care of that. Could you find out when would be a good time to visit that establishment?”

Elio had walked down to Mulberry Street the next day, buying some of his old mates a drink, and had thereby learned that the annual Spring Ball of the Cercle Hermaphroditos would take place next Tuesday, as it was the 21st of March.

“The hall's hiring pretty boys for the occasion. They expect a busy night.” Elio had told Oliver when he'd come back to Irving Place, a little tipsy from the beers he'd downed.

“So, this is a big thing?”

“A huge thing.”

On Monday afternoon, Oliver had told Elio to mind the shop while he'd gone out, balancing a pile of parcels upon his return. After dinner, he'd beckoned Elio up to his study.

“I hope it fits.” Draped over a chair had hung a black swallow-tailed dress coat with matching black trousers, a white dress shirt and a starched dickey. Elio had carefully put it on, stroking the silk facings of the lapels while Oliver had studied his bookshelf.

“Can you help me with this?” Elio had to ask, fumbling with the dickey and the bow tie.

“You look dashing.” Oliver had smiled after arranging the suit.

“And what will you wear?”

Oliver had opened another box sitting on the desk and had taken out what looked like a white sheet. “A toga.”

Elio had gaped at the garment. “Where did you get that?”

“Costume rental. I have to bring it back on Wednesday.”

So, the next evening (which was this evening), it had felt like playing dress up. The toga had left Oliver's right shoulder and a part of his chest bare, which caused something to flutter in Elio's stomach. 

After he'd put his evening suit on, Oliver had made a point of working pomade into his hair until his curls were tamed and combed back.

“You've exceptional bone structure.” Oliver had told him and Elio had tried to kick his naked shin.

Before getting into the cab, Oliver had put on a long coat covering him down to his ankles, handing Elio a final requisite to complete his attire: a riding crop.

Elio had swallowed.

Now, he gripped its handle tighter as they entered the building. The lights were low and it was already crammed, men in different stages of undress flaunting all around them. Oliver drew more than a few greedy gazes after leaving his coat at the coat check. Elio made a point of standing as tall as he could, taking Oliver by the hand to lead him into the main room.

It was a spacious hall with a stage at the far end and a high gilded ceiling. Right now, a small orchestra was playing, and the dancefloor was filled with male couples in fancy dresses, suits, or just their undergarments, twirling around. The walls were lined with small tables, most of them already occupied. Boys – none older than Elio – were moving quickly between them, only wearing tight breeches and lose shirts, serving drinks and very likely offering other services as well. Cigar smoke hung thick in the perfumed air.

Elio and Oliver found a free table at the edge of the dancefloor; but when Oliver wanted to take a seat, Elio coughed and pointed at a spot on the floor next to his chair. “That's your place.”

Oliver swallowed but then knelt where Elio wanted him. He wasn't the only one, some other men were poised the same, at their masters' feet.

Elio ordered a glass of champagne from one of the boys. Nothing for Oliver.

As he allowed his gaze to wander, he noticed that the tableau in front of him presented everything the morale campaigners would call degenerate. Men in dresses and make-up. Men in uniforms – both real and fantasy. Half-naked men, their chests glistening with oil...

From the ceiling hung a swing, and on it sat a boy with golden locks in a short frock and feathered wings, holding a bow.

“Cupid.” Oliver murmured. His face was flushed as he stared at the debauchery unfolding around them from beneath his long lashes.

“What would you do if he shot you with his arrow?” Elio asked, feeling a little reckless. Did he really want to hear the answer?

“I... don't know.” Oliver murmured, lowering his gaze, licking his lips.

But Elio didn't allow for evasiveness. Not tonight. So he grabbed Oliver's chin and lifted his face. “Don't lie to me.”

“Elio-”

“You enjoy this.” Elio made a gesture taking in the whole establishment. “So, what else would you enjoy? Tell me!” Oliver flinched and tried to escape his grip but Elio didn't let him, clenching his fingers on Oliver's jaw until his skin turned white where Elio's fingertips dug into his flesh

"Elio... please.” The raw honesty in Oliver's eyes had Elio drop his hand. Maybe he'd gone too far?

“Oliver-”

“I-”

With a loud fanfare, the band ended playing and cleared the stage. Elio tore his eyes from Oliver and took a sip of his champagne. He'd never had it before. It made his nose tingle.

He heard Oliver breathe heavily and gave him a moment to compose himself before he asked: “What are we looking for?” 

“Something... unusual.”

“You must be kidding.” Elio hissed.

“You'll know when you see it. See him.”

Elio shuddered. “You think he's here?”

“Well, there are enough young boys in dresses here to pique his interest, I'd say.”

What happened next on the stage seemed to prove Oliver right. A young, blond, naked boy was led onto the podium by four masked men and tied to a cross. Silence settled over the crowd as they stared, mesmerized.

The boy was then blindfolded with a white cloth, his head lolling from side to side while what was still visible from his face contorted in a dramatic grimace.

Suddenly, one of the masked men produced a dagger. The audience gasped collectively.

The dagger was brought to the boy's skin, dragged down his chest, leaving a red stain in its wake.

The boy screamed.

Elio gripped his glass so hard he feared it might splinter in his hand. Oliver took his free hand and squeezed it.

The dagger next touched the boy's upper arm, then his inner thigh. He thrashed in his bounds while the crowd wolf-whistled.

Finally, the boy stilled, hanging limp and lifeless from the cross as the dagger touched his most private parts, his cock hard and swollen by now. Around Elio and Oliver sighs could be heard in the tense silence.

Then the blindfold was removed - and the boy winked.

It had all been fake: a fake knife, fake blood. Theatrical thunder.

Applause rose, people jumping to their feet, throwing money and flowers onto the stage. The boy was freed and bowed and curtsied before he was led off stage, blowing kisses into the auditorium while looking over his shoulder.

“Wow, that was...” Elio shook his head.

“Smoke and mirrors.” Oliver sat back on his calves.

“Do you still think this is something our man would enjoy?” Elio was suddenly doubtful. This all seemed... like a charade. He somehow thought the murderer would almost feel insulted by this fakery.

“Maybe not anymore, but he might have gotten some inspiration from this. Before...” Oliver was looking over at a door in the far corner next to the stage that opened and closed a few times while the orchestra set up again. “What's over there?”

“Oh, I guess that leads upstairs.” Elio had never been but he'd heard some stories.

“And what is up there?”

“Boudoirs.” Elio took the riding crop in hand, weighed it. So many possibilities...

“Oh. Well, I think we should check those out, then.”

“What?” Elio blinked a few times. “You sure?” He glanced down at Oliver.

“Quite. My knees hurt.”

“I can make other parts of your body hurt as well.” Elio lifted Oliver's chin up with the whip's tip.

“Don't overdo it, Elio.” Oliver growled, but his eyes had darkened.

“Overdo?” Elio smiled sweetly. “Watch your mouth, slave.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, all the noise fading out around them. Elio couldn't help it as his gaze briefly dropped to Oliver's mouth, then lower to his throat, watching his prominent Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

In the end, it was Oliver who cast down his eyes as if somewhat surrendering.

“Good.” Elio stroked his naked chest with the riding crop, flicking it casually over Oliver's exposed right nipple. “Follow me.” He felt a little shaky as he rose, blamed it on the champagne, and made his way over to the door to explore the devious, dark chasms of the huge old building.

He didn't have to turn around to know that Oliver was right behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I edited something. What I first called a bib is actually a dickey (yep, that's what it was called, sorry, I don't make the rules...)  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dickey_(garment)
> 
> If you want to read Krafft-Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis:
> 
> https://archive.org/details/psychopathiasexu00krafuoft/page/n8


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their night at Paresis Hall continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for some gore.

The stairs behind the door were narrow and dark and stank of mold and piss. When Elio and Oliver reached the next floor, an old man was sitting at a desk, blocking the corridor stretching down into the darkness behind him.

“A dime, gentlemen, for a private room.” The man's voice was hoarse, demanding yet sly. He didn't even bother to look at them.

Oliver had given Elio some money before they'd left the house so now he fumbled for it in the inside pocket of his fancy jacket, dropping a coin on a stained plate. In return, he received a large key.

“Room 33, on the left hand side.”

It all seemed more shabby than inviting: the worn carpet of the corridor, decorated with suspicious stains, its walls covered with old Scheele's green tapestry. Yet the smell was different here, sweeter. It reeked of booze, sweat and heavy perfume. And sex.

From behind closed doors, moans could be heard. Some doors stood open, allowing, even inviting them to look inside.

In one room a naked, fat man was crawling over the floor, whimpering, his back already covered with red welts, while a lean young man wearing just a white loincloth whipped him with a belt. Elio stood for a moment, taking in the scene and remembered doing much the same to a john once. He'd felt nothing, maybe only slight disgust mixed with amusement.

When the belt cracked again and the poor sod hissed, Elio turned away and walked on, shrieks of agony following him.

In his hurry to escape the scene he'd just witnessed, he almost collided with another guest making his way towards the stairs. They both apologized without looking at each other, Elio stepping aside to let the stranger pass. Oliver had to press against the bilious green wall to make room because the corridor was too narrow for his broad frame.

How far down was their room?

Another open door showed them a man tied spread-eagled to a bed, gagged with what looked like his own drawers, while a boy wearing nothing but white stockings and a crimson corset squatted over him, pissing on his chest.

“You filthy bastard, you like that, don't you?” The boy stage whispered while his urine soaked the man's skin and the sheets beneath him.

Oliver made a sound behind Elio and when he turned to look it seemed that Oliver's eyes were about to pop out of his head. His face had started to turn the same color as the wallpaper.

“Heavens.” He muttered, but Elio just shrugged. Yet he also had no intention to watch more.

The next door finally marked their room. Elio unlocked it, then held it open for Oliver.

“After you.” He grinned.

Stepping over the threshold, Oliver took one look at the unmade bed, apparently searching for somewhere else to sit, didn't find anything, and so sank eventually down at the edge of the mattress, primly touching the hem of his toga to cover himself.

“Oh.My.God.” He exclaimed, exhaling slowly after Elio had closed the door. “I don't know if I want to laugh or scream.”

“Well, this was your idea.” Elio quipped, lowering himself next to Oliver, lifting the edge of the worn duvet with his fingertips. “I hope we don't catch lice from these sheets.”

“I'm pretty sure they can in fact transmit gonorrhea.” Oliver giggled and Elio couldn't help it, he laughed as well.

“Oi, this is quite something, innit?” He tucked on his cuffs, then brought two fingers between his stiff collar and his neck. “This thing is strangling me.”

“You look quite elegant.” Oliver smiled at him.

Elio wished they'd taken something to drink with them. He felt suddenly hot under Oliver's gaze, becoming quite aware of their proximity and how little Oliver was wearing...

“So, what will we do now?” He asked, bouncing a little on the bed to hide his nervousness.

They sat in silence for a minute, avoiding to look at each other. The room was chilly and Elio saw goosebumps rising on Oliver's naked arms. There was no fireplace and the small window was cracked, letting in a cold draft.

“You're freezing.” Elio touched Oliver's arm.

Oliver didn't pull away. “Doesn't matter.”

“But it does. Can't have a pharmacist fall ill. What would your customers think?” Elio took off his swallow-tailed suit jacket and draped it over Oliver's shoulders. It was much too small for him but better than nothing. As Elio flattened the lapels against Oliver's chest he couldn't help but brush Oliver's skin. Despite the cool air it felt hot and a little sweaty. When he briefly rested his palm against Oliver's ribcage he felt his heart beating hard and fast.

From somewhere they heard a loud moan.

Oliver didn't take his eyes of Elio as he said: “What does men drive to indulge in these rather peculiar acts?” He wondered. “I mean, I might get the beating. Pain is a stimulant. But... the other stuff?”

Elio just shrugged, not yet willing to take his hands off Oliver's body as he continued to speak: “I mean, you saw that as well, right? That boy was... urinating on the man. It's sterile, of course, but still... I've never seen anything like it.” He sounded equally disgusted and fascinated. “I wonder how it does feel...” He trailed off, finally lowering his gaze down onto the bed. Was he staring at the riding crop Elio had placed on the covers, its thin black rod a stark contrast to the dirty white of the bedding?

“You tell me, you read books on this kind of stuff.” Too late Elio realized he'd given himself away.

Oliver looked up at him, a twinkle in his eye. “Elio Perlman, have you been snooping?” He didn't sound really miffed, just teasing.

“Well, you taught me how to read.” Elio moved his hand up to Oliver's shoulder, squeezing it.

“Fair enough.”

Next door, a mattress started squeaking while something – presumably the bedframe - crashed rhythmically against the wall.

“Oh god.” Oliver muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You wanted to go up here.” Elio smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I did.”

Their eyes locked. Elio suddenly felt as if plugged from the here and now and thrown into some kind of alternate reality. A reality where someone like him could be with someone like Oliver and it would be the most natural thing in the world. People would smile at them holding hands in the street. There would be others like them, proud to freely show their love in the open. He could hear music, loud and unfamiliar, and was that confetti sparkling in the sunlight? It looked like the men around them were waving banners in all the colors of the rainbow as they walked through the village, bystanders on the sidewalk cheering them on... What the hell was happening to him?

He shook his head, becoming aware of the equally bewildered look on Oliver's face. Had he seen it too?

And why was he leaning in? And why had Elio's gaze dropped to his full lips? And why were both their eyes fluttering shut...

And then a shrill scream made them jump apart.

“What is it now?” Oliver stood up, his whole body vibrating with annoyance. “Is this more playacting?”

But to Elio, this somehow had sounded real.

“Come on.” He got up as well and opened the door to peak outside. A few other doors were ajar as well, confused men in differing states of undress staring down the corridor.

To his left, the old pimp giving out the keys stumbled from a room two doors down.

“Holy mother of Christ! Is there a doctor? We need a doctor!”

Oliver was pushing past Elio so quick he couldn't stop him.

“What is it?” He grabbed the man by the shoulders, almost shaking him. With a trembling hand, the pimp pointed into the room he'd just left.

Elio smelled it before he saw it: a biting copper odor, thick and heavy in the stale air.

Oliver was already entering the room, so Elio had no choice but to follow him. He gagged as soon as he stepped over the threshold, staring at Oliver who was bending over the bed.

Elio couldn't see much but what he saw was enough for him to stop dead in his tracks: The bedsheets were soaked with blood. A very pale hand dangled from beneath the linen, the skin streaked with crimson rivulets still dripping from the lifeless fingers.

As Oliver straightened up again he shook his head. Elio became aware of dark-brown stains on his white toga. The costume rental wouldn't like that.

Oliver's voice sounded too loud in the small room as he addressed the pimp: “The boy is dead. But not long. You need to call the police.”

“You’re a doctor?” The man had squeezed into the room as well, trying to shield the bed from view, one hand covering nose and mouth while cursing under his breath. He eyed Oliver suspiciously.

“Kind of.” Oliver answered, trying and failing to pull Elio’s jacket tighter around his shoulders to cover himself. He still managed to look dignified and in charge.

The pimp risked to peek at the blood-drenched sheets, his eyes narrowing as his face paled: “Fuck's sake. We're not gonna get the police. Mr Ellison won't like that.”

Outside in the corridor, a small group of men had gathered. At the mention of the police, however, they all groaned and then dispersed, outright fleeing.

Elio took a step closer to the bed and looked.

He wished he hadn't.

The boy was young, blond. It was... it was the boy who'd performed downstairs not an hour ago, on the stage, on the cross. But now his eyes were broken and dead and his stomach cut up for real, his intestines draped around his head like a gruesome bloody halo. His ankles were tied to the bedposts, and something was stuffed into his mouth.

“Oh my...” Elio felt bile rise in his throat.

When Oliver removed what was lodged in the boy's mouth Elio had to lean back against the grimy wall. The hardened pimp next to him gagged as well.

“Almighty.” He crossed himself

Oliver was holding up a small, shriveled piece of pink flesh.

“Is that... his...?” Elio gasped.

Oliver looked between the dead boy's legs. “It seems like...” He carefully put the penis onto the bed next to the mutilated torso, its gaping wound uncomfortably reminding Elio of his own frailty.

“This is bad. I'm getting the proprietor.” The pimp was already stumbling towards the door.

“Don't tell anyone what you saw here. We don't want the guests to panic because they think there's a lunatic with a hatchet on loose.” Oliver told him, his voice firm.

The man nodded and left.

“Oh my god, Oliver, he was here. Here. While we were basically next door.” Right now, Elio actually felt very close to panicking.

“No, the blood has started to coagulate, and he feels already cold. He's been dead for at least fifteen minutes.” Oliver was looking around the room, lifting the sheets, using the petroleum lamp from the grubby nightstand to shine a better light on the scene.

Elio shivered, wondering how Oliver could stay so calm and collected in the face of such carnage. Suddenly, it hit him. “We saw him.” He whispered.

“What?”

“The man who passed us in the corridor, after we watched the whipping...”

“You think so? Could it have been him?” Oliver came over to where Elio was still leaning against the wall, towering over him. The lamp threw weird shadows and Elio flinched.

“I don't know. I... I didn't look at him properly. Did you?”

Oliver shook his head. “Not really. I remember a mustache, I think... but that's it.”

Suddenly, a tall, bald man burst into the room, followed by the old pimp.

“What the hell...? Danny here told me... Who are you? Police?” The man stared at them suspiciously.

Oliver straightened his back to it's full 6'5. “I'm a... pharmacist. My name is Molotok. And this is my... friend. We were next door when we heard a scream, calling for a doctor.” Oliver positioned himself between the intruder and Elio, as if protecting him with his tall body.

The new arrival relaxed slightly. “So you're guests?” He sidestepped Oliver, walking up to the bed, his hand reaching for the dead boy. It was a large yet elegant hand, the nails manicured, with a big golden ring on the pinkie. “ My god... Poor Charlie. Another one. Who does something like that?” He stroked the boy's hair, matted with blood.

“You should call the police.” Oliver said again.

The man looked at him, then at Elio, who shrugged.

“The rozzers will only make trouble. I have the house full with nearly a thousand faggots. What do you think the police will do to them?” The man cocked his head, a shrewd look on his broad face.

“You also have the disemboweled corpse of a young boy here.” Oliver pointed at the body, and Elio realized that he had trouble controlling his anger. His voice shook slightly, and his jaw was set, his chin jutting out aggressively.

“True.” The proprietor crossed himself. “But he can't be found here. It would only cause... inconvenience.”

“Listen, you-” Oliver squared his shoulders but Elio touched his arm, shook his head.

“You're Mister Ellison, right?” Elio stepped forward from behind Oliver. “We... really don't want to make any trouble. Come on, Oliver, let Mr Ellison deal with it.” He was already pulling Oliver towards the door.

“You're a smart boy.” Ellison looked Elio up and down. “Why don't you get yourself a drink, on the house, while I have this cleaned up here? Oscar, take the gentlemen to the bar and make sure they get whatever they want.” A tall, tattooed bouncer emerged from the shadows of the corridor, his inked arms crossed over his broad chest. Even Danny stepped aside, already moving up to the bed, rolling up his sleeves.

“Thank you, Mr Ellison. That's what we'll do.” Elio squeezed himself past the muscled bouncer, trying for a friendly smile. He heard Oliver putting the lamp on the nightstand with a loud bang before he followed.

The man called Oscar led them back down the stairs to the main room and the bar, making sure they weren't charged for their two whiskeys neat. The orchestra was still playing, something fast and cheerful, while young men dressed in frilly skirts threw their legs up in the air on stage, to the audible delight of the guests, who wolf-whistled and whooped.

Oliver was fuming as he leaned against the bar. “Elio, what the bloody hell-” he hissed.

“You've no idea who these guys are, right, Oliver?” Elio whispered back, not daring to speak up even despite the noise around them. Oscar still lingered in their vicinity. “Ellison is in with all sorts. He's a real gangster, for fuck's sake. The kind who makes you disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. He has many irons in the fire. Prostitution. Protection racket. Money lending. Forgery. Even murder for hire. You don't want to cross him.”

“Elio, the killer was here. Maybe he still is here.” Oliver glanced over his shoulder with a mixture of nervousness and excitement that made Elio's stomach clench. “And there’s a boy lying dead upstairs, and-“

“Yes, I know. But what do you think the cops would do should they even bother to come? Whom would they go after? These poor sods.” Elio nodded towards the flamboyant audience. ”Ellison has to take care of his business. He won't mind having three corpses instead of just one to dispose of. So don't make a fuss. Let’s drink up and leave.”

When Oliver knocked back his whiskey, Elio sighed with relief. That sigh, however, became a groan when Oliver turned around and pulled Oscar by his braces. “We need to speak to your boss again.”

“Oliver-” Elio tried to get between the two but neither budged.

“It's important. We can help him.” Oliver coaxed.

For a moment, Elio feared that Oscar might just punch him in the face as an answer but then he just frowned and shrugged, beckoning them to follow.

Elio felt as if let to his execution. He desperately wanted to use his riding crop on Oliver to beat some sense into him but he suddenly realized that he had left it up in their room.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a small, well-heated office in the basement of Paresis Hall, only large enough to contain a desk, three chairs and a small safe in the corner. Outside, they heard people running back and forth, someone shouting, and faint music from upstairs. But in here was just tense silence.

Elio stared at Oliver's profile, determined, set, despite his silly outfit, and sincerely hoped he knew what he was doing. Otherwise they'd be fished out of the Hudson in the morning – if they were lucky in one piece and still recognizable.

When eventually Ellison threw the door open, Elio jumped.

“What? Why are you still here? Didn't you like my drink?” There lurked danger under his joviality.

“Sir, I know you’re a busy man. But also a man of influence.” Oliver began, standing up; he had at least two inches on Ellison, forcing the gangster to look up at him. “And we are... investigating the recent killings of boys. I’m sure you heard about them. They can't be good for business. So, maybe we could work together?”

Ellison eyed them, his gaze shifting from Oliver to Elio and back to Oliver. “Investigating? I thought you were… what… some quack.”

“I’m a pharmacist. “Oliver was obviously trying to be patient. “But I… we… have learned that there have been at least three more murdered boys before Charlie, who had cut their... private parts off. All those boys were supposedly... prostitutes.” The last word he uttered with the utmost decorum.

Elio had been afraid that Ellison would call for Oscar to rough them up and throw them out, but instead the proprietor sighed, lowering his massive body onto the edge of the desk. “You're right. I don’t know how you know all this but… It’s becoming a nuisance. More than a nuisance, actually. The boys have started talking. They don't want to go out on the streets at night anymore. The returns are dwindling. And the police harass me as well.”

Listening to Ellison lament his losses, Elio balled his hands into fists. Boys like him were just money cows for this mack. When he looked over at Oliver, he saw a muscle twitch below his eye, a sign he had learned to read as Oliver suppressing anger. But his voice stayed steady, sounding almost understanding when he concurred: “It's a jungle out there. With a predator on the loose.”

Ellison nodded. “And it's not just three... four. I now lost eight boys since autumn.”

Elio sucked in a breath.

Oliver sat back down. “Eight.” He frowned. “I get you don't like people meddling with your affairs.” Both Elio and Ellison snorted a humorless laugh. “But I think you agree that this has to stop.”

Ellison slowly nodded. “We're patrolling the streets. We're warning the boys not to go with weird, scary men. But...,” he sighed again, “that killer is like a ghost.”

“Elio here escaped him.” Oliver admitted.

“You did?” Ellison fixed Elio with a calculating, piercing stare.

“Yes.” He felt like a butterfly pinned down under glass. He could read it all on Ellison’s face: The doubts, how such a little twerp like Elio could have fled a brutal murderer; but also a shrewd curiosity.

“The police doesn't really care. To them, it's just wayward boys getting their due punishment. But to us....” Oliver’s tone was serious, persuasive, as he leaned forward. Ellison rested his cold eyes on him. “...it’s personal.”

“And?” Ellison tried and failed to sound aloof.

“If you back us, open some doors, I'm sure we can find the man who did this. We can make it stop. Without involving the authorities.”

“You think so?” 

“Yes.”

Elio waited. The room had gone quiet. Somewhere outside, a door banged.

“What do you need?” Ellison asked eventually.

“Speak to every pimp, every whore. We need to know about a man with a knife, a huge house, a bathtub, a Chinese screen...”

“A red bird above the door.” Elio threw in.

“Done.”

“Could Danny tell you anything about the man Charlie was with in that room?”

“He just remembers handing the key to a man with a mustache. Thinks he was average size. He came alone and Charlie went after. Danny only took a look into the room when Charlie didn't return the key after the half hour it had been booked.”

“So they had made this appointment beforehand.” Oliver spoke more to himself than to Elio or Ellison.

“Maybe. As long as the boys bring in business I don't ask them how they find their gentlemen friends.” Ellison looked at them both with raised eyebrows.

Elio hated that he blushed. Oliver’s next question took him by surprise. 

“Mr Ellison, even if you don't like the authorities... you have some friends in high places, I guess?” 

“Maybe.”

“You scratch their backs, they scratch yours, turn a blind eye... we need what the police has on these killings. I'm sure a man like you can pull some strings and procure these files.”

Ellison rose. “You're a clever man, Mr Molotok. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, if you need anything... let me know.”

He was about to leave when Elio asked: “Where did you take him?”

Ellison stopped with his back to them. “He'll be found tomorrow in Washington Square Park.”

“Thank you. That's... nice.” Elio meant it. 

“It's the least we can do.” When the gangster turned to look at him it took Elio a moment to realize that his bared teeth were his way of smiling.

“Thank you for your time.” He tried to smile back as best he could.

They left through a back door, Oliver's coat magically appearing in Oscar's hands on their way out.

“What have we done?” Elio whispered as they climbed into a waiting Hansom.

“A deal with the devil.” Oliver pulled the cab door shut, leaning back in the dark, an unreadable expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the real James T. Ellison:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_T._Ellison


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing a bed becomes more and more common for Elio and Oliver. But this goes not without complications...
> 
> They also find out about the true extent of the killings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be graphic descriptions of the injusires the dead boys suffered. So you've been warned.

When they returned home, Oliver went straight up to his bedroom. Elio followed him, a little dazed but also too shaken and jittery to be able to go to sleep just now.

“Give me your costume, I'll try to wash the blood out.” He stretched out his arm, watching Oliver as he pulled the white fabric over his head, exposing his almost naked body only dressed in drawers and boots.

Elio turned quickly away, averting his eyes from Oliver's furry chest, the tanned skin of his broad shoulders, the slim V of his hips... well, maybe not quick enough...

Clutching the soiled toga in his hands, Elio fled up to his chamber. There, he changed back into his usual clothes – just flannel slacks and a collarless shirt – carefully folding the elegant suit he'd worn this evening and putting the fine garments over the back of his chair. His hand lingered on the satiny threads before he went downstairs again, got a piece of oxgall soap from the pharmacy, and set to work in the kitchen, crouched over a bucket of lukewarm water, scrubbing at those stubborn stains.

The images of the evening flashed before his eyes as Charlie's blood washed from the silly costume: the boy tied to the cross, beautiful, young, alive, grinning at his enthused audience; his dead eyes staring up at Elio; a small pale hand covered in drying blood; his deep-red intestines curled around his head; the copper smell of; his shriveled cut-off dick; Oscar's tattooed biceps; Ellison's threatening smile.

The man they'd passed in the corridor...

Elio closed his eyes, tried to concentrate... a dark suit, a top hat, a mustache. Nothing more. He couldn't even tell the color of his hair, or his height, or age... maybe if Oliver hypnotized him once more...

Elio jumped when a hand touched his arm, almost knocking over the bucket as he spun around.

He'd been lost in thought and hadn't heard Oliver approaching, who was just wearing thick woolen socks and his nightshirt.

“Elio, it's fine. Go to bed.” Oliver looked tired himself, worn out, his face pale, dark shadows under his usually bright blue eyes that were now dulled and weary.

“I'll just clean this-”

“It doesn't matter. I'll pay the fine.”

Elio looked down at his hands holding the soaked costume. The water looked muddy now, soap mixed with the blood of a dead boy maybe even younger than Elio.

“I don't think I can sleep anyway. I keep... seeing him.” He whispered.

Wordlessly, Oliver turned to the kitchen cabinet and took the bottle of brandy out, pouring two glasses. They were getting through it more and more quickly by the day, Elio thought.

“Yes, it was butchery.” Oliver knocked back his drink in one go.

Elio carried his bucket over to the sink, emptied it and started to wash the toga under running cold water.

“Do you really think it was the same man? The same killer?” He asked.

“The boy had been cut up and castrated.”

“But he didn't wear a dress. And there was nothing... artificial, nothing like that Chinese silk frock or anything...” Elio had turned the taps off and was staring down at the sodden lump of wet fabric in the sink.

“That's true. But... Charlie had played a role, on that cross. Like you and some other boys played girls on the street. Maybe it's that what infuriates our killer? That it's not real. So... he makes it real. He creates truth. And how he'd arranged the poor boy's guts... putting his own penis in his mouth. That was staged. It wasn't random carnage.”

“As if he felt mocked and wanted to ridicule poor Charlie in return...” Elio was by now wringing the last water from the toga, putting all his pent-up anger into the task.

“For someone like him, all these show-acts at _Paresis Hall_ must seem like a scam. A charade, ridiculing what he does. Maybe he feels insulted that his most private fantasies are turned into entertainment?”

“You think he asked Charlie to come up and meet him in that room?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must have gone backstage. Charlie didn't come out after his performance.” Elio turned around, facing Oliver.

“We should try and talk to the other people involved in that crude act they did. Maybe they saw someone? But tomorrow. Now, we need to rest.” Oliver came over to the sink. Elio had put the washing aside so Oliver could offer him the glass of brandy. Usually, Elio didn't like it much but on a night like this he gladly took it, welcoming its warmth spreading through his body.

“You think he recognized me when we met in that corridor?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“I hope not. It was very dark. And you looked totally different then from when he'd met you. Clothes makes the man.” Oliver smiled but it looked a little forced.

“If you'd put me under again, maybe-”

“You can't describe what you haven't seen. We all averted our eyes, me, too, like you do when you encounter someone in a place like this.” Oliver gently squeezed Elio's shoulder.

“I now encountered him twice...”

“Three's the charm, isn't that a saying?” Oliver's hand lingered.

“I just pray I never see him again.” When Elio looked up their eyes met. “Let me just hang this up outside, then we'll go upstairs.”

He put the wet costume over the cloth-line in the yard, but as he returned to the kitchen he found it empty. Oliver had washed their two glasses and left them upside down on the draining board.

When Elio passed his bedroom door, it was ajar. He heard Oliver call his name: “Elio?”

He took a step towards the voice but waited on the threshold. Oliver was already in bed and the room lay in darkness, the only light coming from the moon shining through the curtains.

“You can sleep here if you want. Maybe that will prevent another nightmare?”

He heard the mattress squeak as Oliver moved.

“Would that be okay for you?” Elio hesitated.

“Sure.”

Elio hesitated a moment longer, then let out a breath and walked over to the bed, dropping his trousers before crawling under the blanket. The sheet was still warm where Oliver had lain. He cherished the sensation for a moment but then pulled his thighs up to his chest and rolled on his side, facing Oliver.

Who, instead of closing his eyes and going to sleep, reached out and brushed a curl behind Elio's ear, smiling weakly. “When I was a child, we often slept like this in the winter. When I visited my cousins for Christmas, for example. We kids all piled up in one huge bed, a fire burning in the fireplace, eating sticky sweets we'd stolen from the kitchen. The older ones told us ghost stories. We were so frightened we hid beneath the heavy brocade comforters. I still remember how they smelled of moth balls...”

“Please, don't. I have the feeling I'm living in one of those stories.” Elio whispered.

“Sorry.” When Oliver pulled his hand back Elio's cheek felt cold.

“Do you miss your family, your home? Russia?” Elio swallowed and it seemed too loud in the quiet room.

Oliver was silent for a bit. “I miss Pyotr.” Was what he said eventually. “And you? Whom do you miss?”

“I miss my mum.” Elio felt a lump in his throat. God, no, he wouldn't cry in front of Oliver.

“All these ghosts following us...” Oliver murmured.

“Some would call them angels.”

“Maybe that's what our killer does, he's making companions, angels? So he doesn't have to be alone. They'll stay with him.”

“Who would want to be haunted by ghosts? Even if they are angels.” Elio wondered.

“A very lonely man.” Oliver blinked a few times. “I hope we'll find out more when we get their files.”

“If there _are_ files. The police surgeon mentioned fewer corpses than Ellison. Who knows... I doubt the police bothers much...” Elio had trouble keeping his eyes open. His words started to slur.

Oliver must have noticed.

“Good night, Elio.” He said softly.

“Night.”

Elio slept like dead and didn't dream at all.

The next morning when he woke he felt well rested, warm and save and secure... and so he allowed himself to stay snuggled up against Oliver, breathing in his distinct scent, a mix of sweat, tobacco, brandy and the chemicals he handled on a daily basis...

Fuck! Shit buggery fucking hell! 

He was lying in Oliver's arms, his cheek on Oliver's chest, whose steady heartbeat suddenly rang in Elio's ear like a foghorn!

He came fully round in a split second, panic welling up inside him as he took stock of his body: His own arm draped over Oliver's midriff, one leg thrown over Oliver's strong thigh and yes, that was Elio's erection poking his employer's hip. 

Oh fucking fuck!

Elio kept his eyes closed and wondered how to get out of this embarrassing situation without drawing attention to his state and waking Oliver up.

Was Oliver even still asleep? He had to be, otherwise he'd pushed Elio away. For sure. Maybe not in outright disgust but with a pitying look in his eyes that would be even more humiliating.

And why did this thought made Elio's cock twitch?

Oh, he was a wicked boy...

As if his current situation wasn't already bad enough, a hand stroked down Elio's back to cap it all. Beneath his shirt. Over his bare skin. 

Elio stilled completely, even stopped breathing.

Oliver sighed, sounding content.

Now wide awake, his own heart loud as a steam hammer as it pounded in his narrow ribcage, Elio realized that he needed to move, to get some distance between their bodies, or he would embarrass himself completely and unforgivable. He already felt how wet he'd become between his legs.

All it would need for him to shoot his load over Oliver's lap would be a few more firm touches of his big yet so very tender hands... right now pressed firmly against the small of Elio's back, just above the swell of his ass.

God!

Please!!!

But when Elio tried to roll off, Oliver's grip only tightened. Elio wiggled a bit and managed to turn around, but Oliver seemed to unconsciously mirror his movements. Now, his hand was on Elio's stomach. Low on his stomach. 

And his shirt had ridden up... 

In fact, Oliver was hugging Elio from behind, his broad chest a warm rampart against which Elio's slim back was glued with sweat like a swallow's nest to a wall. Oliver's breath ghosted hot over Elio's nape and if he would just twitch the tiniest bit his dripping cockhead would brush the back of Oliver's palm. 

Elio squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to move a muscle. 

Why was his fucking hard-on not going away? Why was it that the fear of being discovered in this state, laughed at, teased only made him more excited? He knew he shouldn't enjoy this and his cheeks were burning with shame but that somehow didn't make his arousal wane.

Okay, so if he couldn't escape and couldn't calm down, at least he should will his thoughts into a more healthy and normal direction..._'Think of Mary. Her soft skin. Her red mouth. Her small tits.'_

Yet his brain only supplied him with images of short blond hair, a bristly chin and big hands roaming his naked body, spreading his legs apart, holding him down, grabbing his hips, not brutal but sure... and he opened his legs willingly, begging to be touched, to be taken...

Elio felt his balls tighten and wanted to die. No, he wanted Oliver to put his huge hands around his hard cock to make him come - and then die afterwards.

“Petja, mne tebya ne khvatalo...”

Elio didn't understand any Russian but it was clear to him that Oliver was mistaking him for someone else.

This might end up quite embarrassing for both of them.

Elio dared to cough. Oliver's hand moved a little on his quivering belly. Oh god... 

He coughed again.

He had tears in his eyes and felt a cramp start between his shoulder blades when he heard Oliver yawn. 

And then his lips pressed against the back of Elio's neck.

“Petja...?” 

Oliver's nose nuzzled the short hair at Elio's nape while Elio lay there, ramrod straight, no longer sure for what exactly he'd been praying...

A moment later he had to discover that his god had a cruel way to answer. Because Oliver pulled him even closer, and by doing so Elio was forced to discover that his employer was in much the same state of arousal as he was.

Only... well, it felt almost like sacrilege to compare them. Because what was rubbing against Elio's bony ass could only be described as enormous. Oliver would very likely split him in half should he try to...

“Ugh, what time is it?” Elio almost shouted, using all the strength he had left to pull free from Oliver's grip, literally leaping from the warmth of the bed onto the rug. His legs were shaking as he ran from the room and he almost stumbled up the stairs.

He only managed to throw his door shut and lean back against it before his right hand flew to his cock while his left held his shirt up. It took only a few squeezes to get him off, and with some misplaced pride Elio noticed that he'd shot all over the floor, almost hitting the frame of his bed on the opposite wall.

Not bad.

He sank down onto the bare floorboards, still leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath, grinning with elation, blissed out...

Until he heard a knock.

“Elio, are you alright?”

“Ugh... uhm... I... Yeah. But I think we overslept. I'm sure it's late. I had to get up.” His voice sounded rough and strained.

“Are you sure?” Oliver tried to open the door.

“I'm... not decent.” Elio stared at his drying spunk, his sticky hand.

“Oh... okay, sorry. It's just... it's just past seven, you know. We still have an hour before we open.”

“Oh.” He had absolutely no idea what else to say.

“Shall I make some coffee?”

“Yeah... that would be... I join you in a moment.”

After he'd heard Oliver walk down the stairs Elio used a sock he found under the bed to clean both himself and the floor.

Only then did he remember that his trousers were still in Oliver's room.

They didn't speak about it over breakfast.

Maybe Oliver hadn't even realized what had happened?

Elio violently hoped so.

When he'd finished his porridge, Elio couldn't stand the silence and went to fetch the morning papers. Next to them he found a parcel on the doorstep.

Back in their kitchen, Oliver opened it with a knife, whistling through his teeth when he saw what it contained.

“That was fast. How do they even know where we live?”

“You gave Ellison your name and occupation. I told you, he's well connected.”

Oliver held seven slim manila folders in his hands, feathered out like oversized playing cards. When he opened the first, it just contained a few handwritten pages and a photograph of a dead boy.

Oliver swallowed and quickly closed the folder again. “We don't have time to go over these now, we have to open the pharmacy. But tonight we'll work through all of them.”

The day dragged on and they both were a little cranky, blaming the short night – and in Elio's case the strange, unsettling morning. To make matters worse, some complicated orders had to be processed. Oliver became increasingly impatient and one time almost shouted at Elio when he reached for the wrong ingredient.

“Sorry.” Elio apologized. “I don't know what-”

“It's fine.” Oliver sounded anything but.

They worked on in tense silence afterwards.

Elio was glad when Oliver left for an hour to return their rented clothes. He nicked a peppermint sweet from the jar on the counter and fought the urge to sneak a peek into the files still lying on their kitchen table.

When Oliver returned, he brought the evening papers with him.

“There’s a small mention on page 5 of a naked corpse found in Washington Square Park.” He looked grim.

“Charlie.” Elio felt momentarily disheartened as he thought about the poor boy, having met such a violent death, who would now very likely end up as an unidentified body in an unmarked pauper’s grave. “You think Ellison would pay for his funeral?”

“I doubt it. He got rid of him last night as to not be linked to him or his murder.”

“It’s a shame.”

“What? His murder? Or the fact that children have to sell their bodies to strangers to survive? Or the fact that horrendous child poverty is allowed in this country that is so rich yet cares so little for its weak and vulnerable? ‘Give me your tired, your poor’ – ha! Only to have them starve in the streets or exploit them in the worst ways possible!”

Elio froze at Oliver’s outburst. He’d never seen him like this. Usually, Oliver was mild-mannered and gentle. But maybe beneath his polite surface lurked something more radical? Still waters run deep…

And hadn't Elio gotten a glimpse of this fervor after Oliver took care of the nameless women the other night?

“I... I don't know.” Elio mumbled but Oliver didn't wait for his answer and had strode off into his dispensary.

Eventually, the clock stroke six and Elio turned the sign on the shop's door. They both exhaled, then hurried back into the kitchen where the pile of folders was waiting for them.

They spent the next hour in Oliver's study, drinking strong black coffee and eating sweet raisin buns while they both read the police reports and looked at the photographs of mutilated bodies.

Elio had to admit that it felt a little frivolous to indulge in having cake during this kind of gruesome work but Oliver had insisted that they needed the sugar to keep going.

When they were finished, they decided to put the picture of each corps on the paneled wall above the fireplace. Oliver removed an oil painting showing a bunch of bright yellow flowers in a vase to make room for a much crueler decoration.

Beneath each photograph, they put a sheet of paper containing all the information the police had gathered.

When this task was completed, Elio took a step back and looked at it all:

Unknown boy I, found last October in The Battery, approximately 11 to 12 years old, wearing a white silk shirt, castrated, probably bled to death.

Jimmy Cassidy, 13, found naked, except for a silk scarf in his mouth, last November, again in The Battery. He'd lived with his mother and six siblings in a room on Bleecker Street. Castrated, strangled (the surgeon had been unsure if before or after his penis was cut off).

Jeremy Grant, 14, found in Marble Cemetery the day before Christmas, wrapped in a silk cape that didn't belong to him according to his family which lived on Pearl Street. He'd worked in a bar in the Bowery. He'd been castrated and his throat had been cut. His wrists and ankles showed abrasions as if he'd been tied up. And his face...

(“That must be the boy McDougal mentioned, the one where the crows-“

“I remember quite well what he said, Oliver.” Elio had quickly pinned another paper to the wall.)

Unknown boy II, approximately between 12 and 14, found in Hudson Park on New Year’s Day, a silk scarf around his eyes, otherwise naked. Castrated. Showed signs of torture (cuts, burns, three toes and two fingers missing. It looked as if they had been bitten off. That was when Elio had stopped eating his raisin bun and only drank the coffee...).

Unknown boy III, found later in January, again in Marble Cemetery. Same age as the others, wearing an old red silk dress that had been in fashion more than 30 years ago. He'd been castrated and his belly cut open. The murderer had removed his kidneys and liver. Abrasions on wrists and ankles, bitemarks all over his thighs and ass. 

Billy Wheeler – (at the mention of his name Elio had shuddered. He'd known little Billy because he'd also worked on Mulberry Street where he'd also lived in a tenement with his family) – 10, found in Mulberry Park in early February. Castrated, cut open from throat to pelvis, guts missing. He'd been wearing an old-fashioned silk evening gown, not the flimsy summer dress he used to work in when found.

(“The killer must have put it on after... There are no cuts in the fabric and only a few bloodstains.”

Elio had felt a little sick by then. “So he bled him dry before dressing him again?”

Oliver had shrugged but he'd looked pale despite the warm light of the oil lamp.)

And, finally, the still unknown boy found at the building site of the New York Library, wearing the silk dressing gown. Elio flinched when he saw a photograph of the garment.

“It's the same... I'm sure.”

He'd been castrated and cut open much like Charlie, his intestines missing. Yet his body showed more cuts to arms and legs...

Last night, Charlie had been the eighth victim.

So many dead boys - yet the police had made no real effort to solve the cases. The notes were sparse, the reports hastily written. There were no suspects, no witnesses - nothing.

“Okay, what have all these murders in common?” Oliver asked, forcing Elio to apply his analytic mind to hold at bay the horrors they'd just discovered.

“All the boys' penises are missing – apart from Charlie's.”

“Yes. So far, Charlie’s the odd one out.” Oliver pointed at the piece of paper marking last night's slaughter. As they didn't have a photograph of him they'd pinned the short article in its place.

“I really don’t think his killing was planned like the others.” Elio cocked his head to one side, staring at the wall covered in horrid details. Slowly, a pattern seemed to emerge. “No dressing up. And he left him where he killed him.”

“True. All the others where found in some sort of park or open space...”

“Butchering Charlie, he had to be quick. There wasn’t enough time for what he usually does. I don’t know… it looks almost... mean. As if Charlie wasn’t worth the attention he paid to the others…”

“Attention?”

Elio nodded. “What he does takes time. Hours, I guess.” He reached out to touch the photograph of unknown boy III on a slab. “Do we know what else they had to endure?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “According to the surgeon's reports, another detail they all have in common is that they all showed… signs of severe anal penetration. Some boys are described as being outright ripped apart, their… anuses abused and torn. Yet no semen was found. Some of the injuries looked as if the murderer had used… oh god… a wire brush. Inside two boys' rectums the police surgeon found slivers of glass, in another wooden splinters.”

Elio had to close his eyes and grab the mantelpiece. Just imagining the pain caused by these devices made him feel dizzy.

“The reports also note that they all were emaciated and malnourished. The police seems sure that they all lived on the street. That’s why only three of them could be identified, because their families had reported them missing.” Oliver continued.

“He feels quite safe. And he enjoys this.” Elio whispered, raising his hand to gesture at the photographs. “He takes care of them. Dresses them up, makes them bath first. Look at their clean feet. There’s blood, yes, but no streetkid has such clean feet...”

Oliver stepped closer until he stood right behind Elio. Remembering the morning he started to tremble.

Oliver's voice seemed to come from far away. “No witnesses. No one saw who took the boys, no one saw him disposing off their corpses.” He sounded suddenly disheartened.

“Or no one told the police.” Elio pointed out.

“True. What little information we have on some of the victims comes from the interrogations of their family members, but they didn't seem to have been very forthcoming?”

“No wonder. None of us trust the rozzers.” Elio turned and looked up at Oliver. “So, they probably all worked on the street. That makes it unlikely anyone will thoroughly search for them. Our murderer takes them to his house, baths them, makes them wear special clothes, puts... things up their bums, then hacks off their dicks and kills them.” 

“Some boys he tortured before death. And it seems that cutting them up and disemboweling them has become his preferred method, but it wasn't in the beginning. At first, he strangled them.”

“He learns?”

“Maybe. For sure his behavior escalates. It gets more and more extreme.”

Something stirred at the back of Elio's mind. He gnawed on his bottom lip before saying. “Do you remember what Bella told me? About the john from the bath and the champagne bottle?”

“A bath. A bottle... could fit.” Yet Oliver sounded suddenly pensive.

“I should talk to Bella again.”

Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. “I doubt she knows more than she already told you. Probably only wants a free drink out of it. Anyway, first we'll speak to Danny. He should be on shift right now. Maybe he remembers more about the man he handed the key to, now that he had time to calm down.”

"And we can talk to the other members of the act, ask them if they have an idea who Charlie wanted to meet upstairs."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in a Hansom, once again on their way to _Paresis Hall_.

“Why do you think he stuffed Charlie's dick in his mouth?” Elio asked suddenly. “Why didn't he take it with him?”

“He also didn't bath him.”

“Bathing, dressing them up... it shows affection despite everything else.” Elio recalled Oliver washing his hair. “Maybe he thinks what he does is somehow even good for the boys? That he's kind to them, doing them a favor...”

“Purification? Cleaning them... letting them bleed out...”

“Like Passover lambs.”

They fell silent for the rest of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure you all are aware what a ghastly instrument a wire brush is:
> 
> https://www.123rf.com/photo_17970066_wire-brush-used-in-the-household-to-remove-old-paint-and-rust.html


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go too slow for Elio's liking so he takes matters into his own hands...

“I've told Mr Ellison, just a mustache, that's all I remember.” Danny was sitting in his usual spot atop the stairs, giving out keys to guests. This evening, however, business seemed much quieter.

“Was he old? Young? How did he sound?”

“He sounded like them all. Asked for a room. He was neither very old nor very young... just ordinary. Paid his dime and went his way.”

Oliver sighed exasperated.

“Are the men with whom Charlie performed in tonight?” Elio asked.

“Dunno. Go downstairs and talk to Jack.”

On stage, the orchestra performed a popular tune, but the dancefloor was only half-filled at best. Oscar, once again assigned to them by Ellison, took them backstage.

There, it smelled of sweat and sawdust, while props of all sort filled narrow, dim, outright labyrinthine passages.

“Who's Jack?” Oliver inquired

“Stage manager.” Oscar growled, nodding towards a rather flamboyant creature wearing a mauve blouse, the color matching his hair died in the same shade, combined with baggy green trousers, talking to a group of half-naked men in Egyptian costumes. “Gets them poofs on stage.” He spat on the ground where his saliva conjugated with the sawdust covering the boards.

“Jack, can we have a word, please?” Elio asked, approaching the man.

“Sorry, we're not hiring.” His voice was nasal, presumably an attempt to sound posh.

“It's about Charlie.”

Jack froze, theatrically looked over his shoulder, then beckoned them closer. “What do you know?” He whispered.

“We know he's not coming back.” Elio side-stepped a direct answer, making eye contact with the stage manager, holding his gaze to convey the urgency of their questions.

Jack’s mouth became a thin line. “Okay, come with me.” He led them down a corridor, around a few corners, then up some steps. In the end, they found themselves in what looked like a makeshift dressing room, separated from the main backstage area by blankets draped over clotheslines. The space was crammed with mirrors, stools, lots of creams and powders on small tables, racks holding rather fancy dresses and feather boas.

“This is the most private I can offer.” Jack started to roll himself a cigarette. “Want one?” 

Both Elio and Oliver shook their heads.

“So, what's your thing?”

“Ellison sends us to find out what happened to Charlie.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh. The boss himself. Okay. Shoot.”

“Did you see Charlie last night after his... performance?”

Jack put the roll-up in a mother-of-pearl cigarette holder before taking a deep drag.“ Yes. They all came off stage. Laughing. They'd done this thing before. Some men like this shit, blood and cutting and a young, innocent victim... anyway, it was very busy last night, with the ball and all the show acts.” He flicked some ash into a saucer.

“Would he have come back here to dress?” Elio asked, letting his fingers brush over faux-silk robes.

“Yeah... he usually had a smoke and a cup of tea here, washing off the fake blood, before… you know… he did business.”

“So you knew he had things going on the side?” Elio asked, taking a hanger from its rail, staring at a short Kimono with a dragon print. Yet the fabric was cheap and shiny compared to the one he’d been made to wear.

“Are you joking?” The stage manager was obviously getting annoyed. “Could you please put that back.”

“Who can access this area?” Oliver asked.

“Well, there are bouncers to keep the audience out. But they take bribes. And on a night like yesterday... it was swarming back here with all sorts of queens and fairies.” Jack smiled. His lips were very red. Elio wondered if he wore lipstick.

“Did anyone ask for Charlie specifically? Or do you remember someone odd?”

“Seriously? Everyone’s odd here. That's the point.”

“A man with a top hat and a mustache?” Elio tried.

“Oh, him!” Elio felt excitement bubble up inside him until he realized that Jack was taking the piss. “You mean one of the 500 men wearing a top hat and sporting a mustache attending the ball last night? Sorry, I'd really like to help you, but now I have to coordinate with some male Turkish belly dancers. Good day.” Though he hesitated before throwing the drapes aside. “Where’s Charlie? What happened? Why did you say he's not coming back?” He seemed to be taking things serious for the first time during their conversation.

“Thank you for your time.” Oliver smiled politely. Jack waited a moment longer, looking over at Elio, who just shrugged. 

“Okay, then. If you need anything else…” He waved in the direction of the stage and hurried away, already yelling at someone.

When he had left them Oliver mused: “So, basically anyone could have wandered back here and asked the boy for a rendezvous upstairs.”

Elio closed his eyes. “From what I remember, our killer seemed... so normal. Even polite.”

“He certainly doesn't raise suspicion until he has his victims where he wants them. They trust him.”

Elio opened his eyes again, let them wander over the chaotic paraphernalia of stage life. Just 24 hours ago, Charlie had still been alive in this very place, sipping his tea, chatting with other performers. He’d walked to his death guilelessly.

“Let’s see if Ellison has unearthed some new information from the streets.” 

Once again, Oscar led them downstairs to the basement office. This time, Ellison offered them a brandy. As he didn’t strike Elio as a man who would take no for an answer, he accepted.

“Thank you.” He coughed a little after taking a sip and Ellison smirked.

“Careful, boy.”

Elio felt himself blush but said nothing, just tried to smile.

“So, anything new so far?” Oliver asked, nursing his own drink.

“Not much. We got word out onto the streets but it’s just been a day.”

“Thank you for the files. That was quick.”

“I really want this... thing to stop. And as you said, the police doesn’t care.”

“Don’t you worry that pulling a few strings will bring you to the attention of the authorities?” Elio asked.

“They already know that some of the boys frequented my premises. Yet why should I kill the geese laying eggs? Besides, if shove comes to push – some high-ranking officers visit my establishments as well. Neither of us wants to make a fuss. Yet having a dead boy found here, that would’ve been something even these men couldn’t overlook. So I did us all a favor.”

“Except Charlie.” Elio bit his tongue but it was too late.

Ellison fixed him with a cold glare. “Listen, that boy was hell-bent from the day he walked through my door. Maybe even longer. This is not a profession you grow old in. It’s a means of survival, and only the fittest get lucky. Charlie’s fate was sealed maybe the day he was born.”

Elio thought that Ellison surely made things easy for himself but didn’t dare to argue.

Because it was true, in a way. When he’d walked the streets he’d known that every day, every trick could be his last. He had suppressed that thought, though, as not to go crazy. If you gave up you were lost. So he’d carried on regardless, fueled by a vague hope that the tide would turn eventually. It had to. If nothing else, he’d had to believe in that.

He was sure that Charlie had thought much the same. Only, in his case, things hadn't played out. It was a role of a dice, the flip of a coin... live or die.

Elio had just been lucky to escape and meet Oliver.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized that Ellison had stood up from behind his desk. Now Elio was brought back to the here and now by the mobster grabbing his chin with his rough fingers.

“You’re a pretty one. Even prettier than Charlie. I have a vacancy. Aren’t you interested?” The expression on Ellison's face could only be described as leering. “I know men who’d pay an obscene amount of money to be alone with you for an hour.”

Behind them, Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have to decline that offer. He’s already taken.”

Ellison barked a laugh as he let go of Elio. “Good for you. No offense, I at least had to try. Though you could always share him, you know.“

“I’m not one for sharing.” Oliver’s calm dignity even put someone like Ellison in his place.

“Very well.” He grunted, and Elio relaxed a little as he sat back down behind his desk. “As soon as I hear something, I'll let you know.” And he dismissed them with a curt nod.

Outside on the corridor, Elio took Oliver’s sleeve and stopped him, pulling him into a dark alcove used for storing brooms and mops, smelling of green soap and vinegar.

“Thank you,” he swallowed. “For, you know…what you did in there. That was… yeah.” He had absolutely no idea how to go on.

“I’m not your pimp, Elio. I’d never allow for you to fall into the clutches of-“

Elio put a finger to Oliver’s lips to silence him. “Stop talking.” But he grinned, his free hand squeezing Oliver’s palm, remembering how it had rested low on his belly just this morning. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, a newspaper boy was yelling: “Corpse found in Washington Square Park. Read all about the gruesome murder. Was it a lunatic?”

Elio shuddered. Oliver bought a copy before hailing a cab.

“That visit was a waste of time.” Elio said when he kicked off his boots by the backdoor after they’d returned home.

“You think so?”

“We didn't learn anything new.”

“Oh, I think we did learn something. Our murderer blends in. He's not acting or looking crazy. No one noticed him. He's able to plan ahead and to thus escape. He might be insane but he's also very bold and cold-blooded, as if he doesn’t fear detection. Getting away with Charlie’s murder will even fuel his delusion of grandeur.”

“You know, it frightens me a little that you seem to understand what he does, as if you were inhabiting his mind.” Elio leaned back against the kitchen counter. Oliver's attitude suddenly really bothered him.

“I told you before, if f I can comprehend what he does I might be able to come to terms with other deeds people call crazy.” Oliver explained, tense urgency in his voice.

“Like... Pyotr taking his own life?” The question had been hanging in the air between them for a while but Elio knew it was a mistake to say these words the moment they left his mouth. Because Oliver’s face went completely blank, only the telltale muscle once again twitching in his jaw.

“Or why a boy dresses like a girl to seduce men.” Oliver's voice was a cold whisper. “You know, most medical experts would have you committed to an asylum. Do you know what they would do to cure you? Ice baths for hours, even days, restraints, force feeding if you'd refused to eat, and prayer, prayer, prayer to rub in how utterly twisted and depraved you are. Who wouldn't go insane when submitted to such treatments?”

Elio felt himself blush. “Oliver, I'm-”

“Good-night, Elio. Make sure all doors are locked and the fire is out.” With that, Oliver turned away and climbed the stairs, his broad back rigid, fists clenched at his side.

Elio took his time securing the house, double-checking every bolt and window. When he eventually went up to his chamber, he saw that Oliver's door was firmly shut. He still hesitated in front of it, contemplating knocking to apologize.

But as he raised his hand he heard a strangled sound from behind the door and froze mid-motion. Another sharp gasp followed, painfully high. Was Oliver... crying?

Elio decided to leave him in peace. Let him grieve in private. Yet he also decided that he would start an investigation of his own. This evening hadn't brought them any closer to the killer. Oliver’s approach was too timid, too scientific. That was not how these things worked here.

It might be time for Elio to go some places alone.

Over the next few days, the atmosphere between them felt colder than usual, distant. Oliver wore a shirt in the mornings when Elio came in to shave him, and they didn't talk much, neither over breakfast nor dinner. Or in the hours between during work.

In the evenings, Oliver left Elio with the dishes and the newspapers to read and spent his time alone in his study, taking a quarter of brandy with him.

At least two times when Elio knocked to say good-night he caught Oliver quickly sliding what looked like a photograph back into the drawer of his desk.

They didn't hear from Ellison the whole week. Their search for a murderer started to feel more and more unreal to Elio, as if the killer, who'd been so close, was now slipping through the cracks, returning to obscurity, vanishing like a specter in the morning.

This forced idleness had Elio more and more antsy to make a move, to take action. He knew the killer was still out there, probably already looking for a new victim to torture and slay. On Sunday, he finally decided that he had waited long enough. It was his free afternoon so he'd go out and do some investigating of his own. He put on a clean shirt and a dollar in his pocket, and was about to quietly slip out when Oliver intercepted him by the back door.

“Are you meeting that girl again?” His face was closed off as if he tried to seem disinterested. Yet he didn't move out of the way.

“What if?” Elio replied sulkily. Somehow, he was pretty sure that Oliver would try to stop him if he knew the true purpose of his outing.

“Nothing. Good luck then, I guess.” Oliver didn't lower his gaze. Elio felt trapped by his stare, as if Oliver was seeing right through his little charade.

“Thanks, I guess.” He huffed, a small sound to show his indignation. “Can I go now?” He gestured towards the door. Oliver slowly stepped aside, holding the door for him in mock servitude.

“Don't wait up for me, I might be late.” He didn't look back but was sure that Oliver's stern, brooding stare followed him.

Out in the spring sunshine, Elio walked up Broadway until he reached 28th West Street. It was actually quite close. 

The building didn't look like a Turkish bath from the outside. Someone had told Elio that it used to be a church, but he wasn't sure if that was true. It felt somehow sacrilegious to him when he thought about the things that now went on inside the building, even if he didn't adhere to the Christian faith.

At the entrance, he paid his fee, for which he got admission as well as a rather clean towel. First, he went into the basement to change, putting his clothes inside one of the lockers. With just the towel slung low around his hips, Elio started to walk the floors.

The main pool – the only heated indoor pool in New York City – was located in the basement as well. Up on the second floor, however, were so-called steam rooms and private suites equipped with a bathtub. Where the doors or curtains were open, naked men could be seen lounging about. From behind closed doors Elio could hear moaning and grunting.

He had never really liked this place. To him, it felt sinister and claustrophobic. But he knew that many boys worked here. 'At least the johns are clean' was what they said, and Elio had grown to appreciate a minimum of hygiene himself.

He knew that Billy used to pick up tricks at the Everard Baths. And Bella had told him she met the suspicious stranger here as well.

It was a bit disturbing, but somehow Elio couldn't get Bella's story out of his head. Her words had followed him into his dreams over the past few nights he's spent alone in his bed.

As he walked down the narrow corridors leading further inside the building, Elio realized that he didn't even knew what he was looking for. Yet somehow the idea of coming here had formed over the last week.

It was a place he could never visit with Oliver. It was too carnal, too base, too physical for someone like him. It was a decadent, depraved, twisted underworld he entered here, stripped of all the frippery that made Paresis Hall at least remotely tolerable. Here flesh and naked skin ruled as the last shreds of decency were cast aside.

But maybe it was that what the murderer tempted? This might very well be one of his hunting grounds. Elio was sure he would recognize him the moment he saw him.

A few men stared at him from their stone benches as he walked past their cubicles, but Elio ignored them. Others were leaning against the walls, sweating with condensation, greeting him in low voices, throwing him inviting looks. Despite being a fine spring afternoon outside,inside here reigned gloomy twilight.

Elio shivered after a while int the draft coming from the nailed-up huge windows at the end of the corridor and decided to visit one of the steam rooms to warm up.

The air was foggy in here and the heat made him instantly sweat. He could only see a few feet ahead. The room seemed rather empty apart from a few elderly men sitting on the benches, wrapped in towels just like Elio. A heavy, throbbing silence lingered within the humid warmth.

Elio avoided eye-contact as he lowered himself onto a bench, leaning his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. The heat made him sleepy, and he was on the verge of drifting off, going under, when he heard a voice...

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Elio's eyes snapped open. That voice... he remembered that voice.

It came from somewhere to his left. But the misty steam was so thick that he couldn't see anything.

He quickly got up, almost slipping on the damp floor.

When he reached the corridor, however, it was empty. But from the corner of his eye he saw a movement, someone walking towards the stairs. Two people? A tall and a smaller one?

Elio followed them down the stairs.

Then he heard the voice again. Friendly, educated, harmless, from one of the changing rooms. He couldn't quite make out what was said, though, as he quickly dressed, hurrying as not to lose them. Him.

As he went outside, he threw his towel into one of the hampers before returning the key for his locker to reception.

On the street, he waited at the foot of the steps leading up to the bath's entrance, nervously gnawing on his thumbnail, wishing he wore a hat or scarf to hide his face. But maybe he had been mistaken? He might be so keyed up by now that he saw their murderer everywhere. Was he following a figment of fantasy?

He was about to leave, to go back home or find a bar and get drunk first when a man and a boy left the bath, walking down the steps, passing Elio without noticing him before turning right.

Doubts lingered as Elio stared after them Was this really the man who'd told him to put on that silk robe? The man he'd passed in the corridor at Paresis Hall shortly before discovering Charlie's disemboweled body? He looked so harmless.

Anyway, what did he have to lose by trailing them, making sure? So he started walking.

Until the man and the young boy stopped at the curb, and for a moment Elio was close to panic. What if they took a cab? He didn't have the money to hail a carriage himself.

Luckily, after looking left and right before crossing the street, they seemed content to walk on. Elio stared at the man's back a few yards ahead as he strolled behind them. Could that really be him? It was hard to say. Somehow, posture and height did fit what he remembered. He also wore a top hat and a dark suit and sported a mustache.

Like many other men did.

The older man was now talking to the boy by his side, a thin, red-haired kid who Elio took for about twelve. His clothes were clean but clearly mended, the hem of his trousers let down several times, the sleeves of his woolen jacket too short, bony wrists protruding form the rough fabric.

His clothes told Elio that someone still cared for the boy to be dressed properly. Very likely someone would report him missing. Was the murderer so desperate – or so sure of himself – that he was willing to take such a risk?

At the corner of 5th Avenue, the boy suddenly stopped and seemed hesitant to go any further. Elio almost bumped into them but managed to walk past, making a show of lingering in front of a shop-window displaying musical instruments. He could still watch both of them in the reflection.

The man had short fair hair, showing under the elegant top hat. Gray or blond, Elio couldn't say. His eyes looked pale as well. Despite the sunny weather, a scarf was pulled up over his chin, leaving not much of his face exposed.

A silk scarf, decorated with red Chinese dragons.

Elio felt a sweat break out at the back of his neck.

The man was leaning down, intently whispering to the boy who seemed to be having second thoughts. He was looking to his left and right, trying to take a step back but the man grabbed his shoulder, his gloved fingers digging in so forcefully that the boy flinched and made a small noise.

None of the passers-by paid the little scene any attention.

Elio saw the boy biting his lower lip, nodding reluctantly. The man's expression lit up and he pushed the boy onward.

Elio started to turn around, so engrossed watching the pair that he didn't see the woman coming out of the shop. She ran straight into him, dropping a folder of sheet music she'd been carrying.

“Can't you watch out!” She scolded him, kneeling down to gather the pages strewn all over the sidewalk.

The commotion got the man's attention.

His eyes met Elio's.

And true, his hair was shorter now, but as they stared at one another, Elio realized that the man recognized him.

“You!” He hissed.

The woman was still complaining but Elio tuned her out. He took a step towards the man, at the same time reaching for the boy.

“Run.” He said.

The boy looked from Elio to the stranger, then back at Elio, confused.

“Run!” Now Elio took his arm, pulled him away from the murderer. “Run. Go home. Now!”

The boy turned on his heels and sprinted down the street the way he'd come.

Elio and the murderer faced each other.

“I should have killed you even though you're unworthy. Like that other dirty whore.” The man whispered, his mouth morphing into an unpleasant smile, eyes darkening. “Butcher you like a pig.”

Bright hot wrath welled up inside Elio. He lunged at the man with outstretched arms. “You monster!”

Then everything happened very fast. The man nimbly stepped aside as Elio launched himself forward. At the same time, the woman had gathered all her pages and stood up, getting right in the middle between them. Elio stumbled, tried to dodge her, only to feel a hand at his back, shoving him.

The last thing he saw was a delivery cart, the gray Percheron pulling it careering towards him.

Someone screamed.

Elio froze, too shocked to move.

The horse balked, neighing, its nostrils flaring. 

As a hoof hit Elio's head he fell like a tree cut down in its prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Elio is still alive! But he's badly injured and Oliver will have to take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there's a scene in this chapter that might reminiscent THAT scene from the Rome part from cmbyn...
> 
> I'll be out and about the next 2 days, so, have this chapter earlier than usual :)

White.

That was the first clear thought crossing Elio's mind when he opened his eyes.

Everything was so white.

Were these the seven clouds of glory overshadowing Paradise? He vaguely remembered his mother telling him about angels and a gate made of some precious stone guarding the place where his immortal soul would await the end of days...

But right now, everything was too bright, hurting his eyes, so he closed them again, letting the angels sing him to sleep. The end of days would come soon enough, and with it God's judgment of him... taking into account all his sins, Elio wasn't too keen on it.

But when he woke up next and everything was dark, he got afraid. Maybe the last judgment had already been delivered? Elio had hoped to at least pass for one of the intermediate, but apparently he belonged to the wicked and this was how it felt to be wiped from the book of life...

He sat up in wild panic, then gasped in pain. 

Did the dead feel pain?

“Elio, lie back down.”

Was that Oliver's voice? Was he dead too? Surely he would be one of the righteous, so what was he doing here in this dark hole?

“Elio, it's okay, you're safe.”

When Elio dared to look to his left, Oliver was sitting there, fumbling with a match to light a candle.

“Am I dead?” Elio asked, wheezing with pain as he tried to follow Oliver's command.

“Nearly.” Oliver sounded grim. 

In the low light from the candle, Oliver looked haggard: dark circles under his eyes, more than a five o'clock shadow of stubble covering his chin and cheeks, the collar of his wrinkled shirt undone...

“You need a shave...” Elio tried to reach out for Oliver's face, couldn't move his left arm, and started to panic again.

“Yes, I'm sure I do.” Was that a smile on Oliver's tired face? “But it will take some time before you can help me with that again. You're at Bellevue hospital with a broken arm, a few broken ribs and a severe head wound. Apparently, from what I could gather, you ran in front of a carriage. What's the last thing you remember?”

The bath.

Sheet music spread out on the sidewalk.

A young boy.

The horse. The carriage. Someone pushing him.

The murderer.

Elio couldn't quite recall what had happened but snippets of memories flashed before his eyes.

“I saw him.” He whispered. But remembering, apparently, wasn't what his bruised brain wanted to do at the moment as it punished his efforts with a blinding headache.

“You saw whom?” Oliver was pouring him a glass of water from a carafe on the bedside table, lifting it to his lips. Elio took a small sip, swallowed besides the pain in his chest.

“The murderer. He had a boy with him... I... it's blurry, I don't... I'm not sure... my head... but I think he pushed me.” Elio felt his eyes flutter shut.

Oliver was silent for a long moment.

“You need to rest.” Was all he said eventually.

“Will you be here when I wake?” Elio was suddenly so tired he could barely move his lips.

A hand touched his forehead, stroked down his cheek. “Of course.”

True to his word, Oliver was still sitting next to Elio's bed when he came round again, dozing on a chair too small for his large frame, crouched in a position that would surely give him a sore back. This time, Elio was able to make out a metal bedframe, an open white curtain, a high window opposite through which he glimpsed a gray sky. As he looked around he realized that he was lying in a huge dormitory filled with two rows of beds. In the aisle between, nurses in starched uniforms were running back and forth. 

As Elio tried to sit up, he became aware that his left arm had been put in a cast and was fixed against his chest in a sling.

A young nurse stopped at his bed and helped him, one arm around his shoulders, fluffing his pillow up with the other. When he was propped up in a sitting position she touched Oliver's shoulder and he immediately opened his eyes.

“Look, he's awake. I told you, he'll be right as rain in no time.” She grinned, pointing at Elio. “How are you feeling?” 

Elio tried to take stock of his condition: His head hurt, but not as bad as last night. His chest hurt as well, he discovered as he tried to move again. The skin beneath the plaster cast itched. His mouth was dry. And he was hungry.

It could be worse.

“I'm okay but I could do with some breakfast.” He said.

The nurse laughed, two dimples forming in her round, rosy cheeks. “I'll see what I can find you.”

“How long have I been here?” Elio asked when she had left, turning towards Oliver as best he could.

“Four days.”

“What?!” Elio couldn't believe it.

“I only found you on Monday night.” Oliver's voice was rough and he coughed to clear his throat. “You had developed a fever by then and the doctor said something about brain swelling... he was preparing to amputate your left arm below the elbow since you had an open fracture of both radius and ulna that could cause an infection and sepsis... I persuaded him to wait 24 hours.” He raked his hand through his hair, not going into further detail. Yet his worn looks said it all. 

“I... sorry...” Elio stared down at his fingers protruding from the bandages. The thought of them not being there made him shudder. Which made him wheeze.

“Elio, what were you thinking?” Oliver sounded suddenly angry, despite his obvious fatigue and worry.

Elio was saved from a further dressing-down by the nurse returning with a tray on which she had put a slice of sweet white bread and two mugs of strong black tea with loads of sugar. Elio dunked the bread into his and wolfed it down, silenced for the moment by what tasted like the best meal he'd ever had.

The nurse pressed the other mug into Oliver's hand, tousled Elio's hair and left again. Oliver took a sip of the brew, then leaned close.

“When you didn't come home on Sunday night I started to worry. I feared... well, it doesn't matter. But when you still hadn't returned on Monday afternoon I went over to Mrs Adams after closing the pharmacy early to talk to her parlor maid, Mary. But she told me that she hadn't seen you in weeks... So I knew you were in trouble. Her employer, Mrs Adams, has a telephone, and she kindly allowed me to make a few calls to hospitals... As I described you to the desk clerk at Bellevue, he told me that they had admitted someone fitting your description on Sunday afternoon, being run over by a carriage... I... Elio, for god's sake...” Oliver fell silent. 

The expression of utter agony on his face froze Elio's hand mid-motion, hovering above his mug as he was just about to take another bite of soggy bread. 

“When I arrived here, I was told that you had a severe head wound. There's-” Oliver gestured towards his face and Elio put the bread back down on the tray to use his functioning right hand to touch his brow. There was what felt like a huge scar at his hairline, surrounded by bristly stubble, as if his hair had been shaved off. “But at least you were alive. Barely. Thank god the fever receded on Tuesday.” Oliver tried to smile but Elio could see that it took him some effort. “Last night you said... someone pushed you. Is that true?”

Elio washed down the rest of the bread with the last of his tea before answering. Luckily, food seemed to appease his throbbing headache. “I'm sure it was the murderer.”

He quickly told Oliver what he still could remember clearly: going to the the baths, overhearing the murderer chatting up a boy, how he trailed them both until...

“I think the boy fled. And then the man called me a whore and I wanted... I don't know, I think I attacked him... next thing, I'm in the middle of the street and there's a horse coming at me... but I'm sure someone pushed me in front of that beast. That he pushed me.”

Oliver had paled at his tale. “Elio... are you completely mad? What were you thinking-”

“He had another boy with him-”

“Why did you go to the bath alone in the first place?”

The woman in the neighboring bed started to cough and that apparently made Oliver remember that they were in public.

“What the hell had gotten into you?” He hissed, lowering his voice.

“I had to do something. We were just waiting for the next body to turn up.” Elio whispered back. “Remembered what Bella had told me? So I thought-”

“So you thought you'd go alone to the bath house to find a man who has killed eight boys already and knows you are his only living witness. What a brilliant plan!”

Elio started to feel angry which wasn't what his damaged head condoned. Adding to it, a dull throbbing had started in his left arm. “Well, I _did_ find him, didn't I?”

“Yes, and you almost became his ninth victim. And now he knows that you follow him.”

“Why would he think that? It could have been a coincidence.”

“Do you really think he's such a fool?”

“You tell me as you're so keen on understanding him!” Elio's voice had gone a little shrill

“What's the commotion here?” A doctor was standing next to Elio's bed, frowning down on him.

“Nothing.” They both replied.

After a short examination it was determined that Elio could leave the hospital (Elio suspected his bed was needed on the ward, and with Oliver being a fellow medical professional, the hospital would be simply glad to see him go) if Oliver could assure the doctor that he would take proper care of him, making him rest in bed for at least another week.

“The bone was set but to properly heal the cast has to stay on for at least four weeks.”

Elio groaned.

The ride back home in a Hansom cab turned into pure agony. Elio felt every bump in the road in his fractured arm, holding it close to his chest, with just a rough blanket wrapped around his shoulders to cover him. As his own clothes had been too badly ripped and soiled to be saved, he was only wearing a cheap cotton shirt from the hospital underneath, more gray than white and soft from having been put through the mangle for at least a hundred times (Elio felt sympathy for the garment as they seemed in much the same worn-out state). He was on the verge to passing out when they finally arrived at the pharmacy.

“You shut it?” Elio mumbled, noticing the sign in the window.

“Due to personal reasons, yes.” Oliver carefully put an arm around Elio's shoulder as he guided him towards the door. “Come on, lets get you into bed.” 

To Elio's utter embarrassment, Oliver almost had to carry him up to his chamber. He fell asleep before Oliver had tucked him properly in, exhausted by even this short journey.

Maybe a week in bed wasn't so bad after all?

Yet 24 hours later he was thinking very differently about the prospect. Oliver didn't even allow him to get up and use the privy in the backyard. Instead, he stood next to his bed with a chamber pot.

“No way!” Elio declared.

“Suit yourself.” Oliver answered so calmly that Elio wanted to scream and slap him just because.

“I'm not taking a shit in this... thing while you're watching!” His bowels reacted to this statement with a humiliating rumble and he had to bend forward, clutching his tummy to prevent gasping in pain. The cramps were getting worse.

“Elio, don't be ridiculous. Who do you think cleaned you up at the hospital?”

“At least I was unconscious.” He wailed, holding up his hand to silence Oliver as another colic spasm wrecked his body. God, he feared he might actually soil himself any minute now if he didn't take a dump soon.

“You know you can die from not evacuating, right? Your feces will poison your body. Have you ever heard of the famous Russian composer Tchaikovsky? He succumbed to anuria because he didn't pee enough. It was quite painful, I've heard.” Oliver invitingly held the white china bowl in front of Elio's face.

It seemed Elio only had the choice between dying from shame or dying from his guts exploding.

“Promise you won't look.” He whimpered as he started to climb off the bed.

“Don't worry.” Oliver helped him up and steadied him as he swayed standing on weak, shaking legs. As it turned out too difficult to hold his night shirt out of the way and keep his balance squatting above the chamber pot with just the use of one arm, Elio stopped struggling when Oliver carefully lowered him, lifting his shirt far enough so he wouldn't befoul it.

“I can't... with you here.” Elio mumbled after a few moments during which absolutely nothing happened.

“Ignore me. Try to relax. You're too tense.” Oliver's left hand came round to rest on Elio's stomach, rubbing and squeezing gently.

How the hell was he to ignore that?

In the end, Elio just closed his eyes and allowed nature to take it's course, blushing hard at the undignified noises his body made as it got rid of its collected filth.

The smell alone made him want pray for a hole to open in the ground and swallow him.

“Sorry for the mess.” He whispered, eyes screwed shut tightly, but Oliver only hummed reassuringly, sounding not in the least disgusted.

“Are you done?” When Elio just nodded, still not looking, Oliver made him lean forward a little more, his good hand braced against the floor. “Okay, let me just clean you up.”

Hot tears of shame were by now running down Elio's face while Oliver swiftly wiped his bottom with a wet cloth.

“All done. Back to bed with you.”

Only when he heard Oliver hurrying down the stairs to empty the chamber pot did Elio open his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, blinking away the last tears.

He felt so fucking useless. How could Oliver put up with him?

At least he should stop crying like a wimp.

He wiped his face with the back of his right hand. Okay, so he survived this ordeal. And he had to admit that he felt much better.

It couldn't get any worse now, could it?

But fifteen minutes later Oliver was back, this time with another bowl filled with warm water, a sponge, and a towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Let me wash you.”

Elio shook his head, then sniffed his armpit. Not too bad, he thought. A bit sour, perhaps, and by now he was able to distinguish the smell of iodine from his regular body odor, but he would rather die than let Oliver touch his naked skin.

“I don't need a wash.” He pouted.

“Believe me, you do. Stop fretting like a stubborn child.” Oliver sounded quite firm as he set the bowl down on the nightstand.

Elio had no choice. Yet he didn't help either and so it evolved into a bit of a struggle to get him out of his nightshirt.

He stared defiantly up at Oliver as he eventually lay stretched out and exposed on the mattress, the only part of him covered his broken left arm.

Oliver smiled gently before he set to work, starting at Elio's right clavicle, working his way down. Elio felt his nipples peak in the aftermath of the wet sponge touching them.

“Okay?” Oliver asked. “Not too cold?”

“No.”

When Oliver reached his belly, Elio giggled.

“I can do that myself, you know.” Panic crept into his voice as Oliver dipped lower.

“You need to rest. I promised to take good care of you.” Had Oliver's voice dropped a little? Was it rougher than usual?

The sponge dabbed Elio's cock and balls quick and sure without any trace of embarrassment or nervousness, as if it was the most natural thing to do for Oliver to wash Elio's private parts.

Afterwards, the sponge traveled down Elio's legs, reaching his feet which caused another giggling fit.

“Kneel up.” Oliver helped him, washing his back, his thighs, the sole of his feet (Elio bit his lips) before finally diving between his cheeks. Elio braced himself against the wall and thought of pooping into the chamber pot earlier to prevent his treacherous body from responding.

The rough towel against his skin, rubbing him until he was warm and rosy all over, was another temptation he fought to withstand. Elio took deep breaths, the burn in his chest gladly enough to counter his arousal.

“Much better.” Oliver declared eventually as he helped a pliant, rather dazed Elio back into a fresh shirt.

Last, he took the cloth from Elio's washstand to wipe his face. “I know this isn't easy for you, but please, don't worry. I don't mind taking care of you in every aspect. I mean it.”

With a quick kiss to Elio's brow Oliver was gone.

Okay, if his reward for shitting into a bowl was getting a bed bath from Oliver afterwards, Elio might be able to live with the former for the time being.

So this was how they spend the next few days, with Oliver tending on him like a mother hen. No matter how much Elio begged and pleaded and whined and yelled and sulked – Oliver wouldn't let him get up.

At least he read to him in the evenings, from a novel called Oliver Twist, but during the day, when Oliver had to work, Elio was left alone. Because of the concussion any distracting reading material had been banned from his room, as Oliver argued that it would exhaust his brain. The sad highlights of his day became the meals: warm milk and porridge with a splash of brandy in the morning, mashed potatoes with butter for lunch, chicken broth for dinner. 

No coffee. Bad for his blood pressure. No fruit and vegetables or red meat as Oliver thought it might overexert Elio's digestive tract. No salt, no spices. Just bland, nourishing, mushy food.

“I still have teeth, you know?” Elio quipped.

“As well as a sharp tongue.”

Elio stuck the offensive body part out in response, making Oliver laugh.

The only thing allowed apart from eating (thank god he had still use of his right arm or Oliver might have spoon-fed him as well, like a toddler or a drooling doter) and grooming was for Elio to lie in his darkened room and rest.

From what, he wondered?

By Sunday, he was climbing the walls. Not even an extra dose of Dickens in the afternoon could prevent him from lashing out at Oliver about everything: the mattress was too hard; the sheets were too warm; it was stuffy in the room, the open window caused a draft...

Oliver sighed a few times but bore every of Elio's eccentrics like a saint.

It was utterly infuriating.

But then an illicit escape down to the (by now rather untidy) kitchen on Monday morning made Oliver so angry when he discovered Elio with two fingers in the jam jar that he truly feared he'd gone too far and Oliver would beat him with his walking stick.

“Back.To.Bed!” He growled through gritted teeth and Elio hurried back upstairs as fast as he could.

Despite longing for a coffee he obediently drank his glass of milk and scraped the porridge bowl.

Trying to further placate Oliver by acting docile, he even swallowed his tonic without protest, at least in part because the excursion downstairs had brought his headache back. Only in the evening did he dare to ask as Oliver served him some chicken broth - again: “I'm dying of boredom here. Why am I not even allowed to read the papers?”

“Your brain needs rest.”

“But I might forget what little I've learned. Can I at least get the Illustrated to look at the pictures?”

Something flickered over Oliver's face. “Better not. You shouldn't wear yourself out.”

Elio put his spoon down. “What is it?”

“Eat up. The soup's getting cold.”

“What is it, Oliver?”

He sighed heavily. “Don't get upset. There's been another one.”

“What? Another murder? When? Oh my god, Oliver, we have to-” He was already half-way out of bed.

“No, we have to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. I realized... this was all... a mistake.” Oliver lifted his legs bed onto the mattress, his grip firm around Elio's ankles.

Elio clumsily put the half-eaten bowl of soup on his nightstand, his broken arm still hindering him, and gestured for Oliver to sit down. He looked... older, Elio suddenly realized. Gaunt. Sad. Jaded.

“What are you talking about?” Elio reached for him with his right hand, touched his arm.

“This was a stupid idea, trying to catch a murderer. I mean, who are we? Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?” A lopsided smile curled Oliver's lips.

Elio punched his shoulder lightly. “But we can't give up now, not when he's killed again.”

“He almost killed you.” Oliver's voice was very low. 

“Yeah, but he didn't succeed. I'm apparently like a cat. Seven lives, they say.”

Oliver sighed heavily, petting Elio's wild curls. “When you... were gone... I thought about what you said, why I got so invested in this... and you were right, it was because of Pyotr, how I had lost him.” 

His touch was gone as Oliver balled his hands into fists his lap. “I desperately wanted to understand what had driven him to take his own life, and I somehow thought that immersing myself in another person's madness would give me answers. I wanted to embrace everything deranged, but from a safe distance, as if gazing at it through a microscope, dissecting it without becoming a part of it.” He laughed, hollow and flat. 

“But it's all just fake... cheap and ugly... brutal. There's no noble truth behind it, no deep insight, nothing to be discovered but decay and poverty and bleak sadness and endless struggle... and then you were gone as well, had vanished, and I thought... I thought I'd lost you, too. And that opened my eyes. I can't keep losing people I...”

Elio was stroking his arm by now, sensing that Oliver was on the verge of tears and desperately tried to hold them back, to keep up appearance and a last shred of dignity.

His voice shook a little when he continued: “You're important to me, Elio. When I found you in hospital and you were lying there, unconscious, burning up with a fever, your face black and blue, dried blood in your hair... I never saw Petja, his family had him buried quickly, without inviting me... but I imagined he must've looked a little bit like you in death. I'd no idea what had happened to you but I'm not... I'm not chasing some murderous folly, and meanwhile another living, breathing person is slipping from my life.”

It wasn't easy for Elio to kneel up but he somehow managed, climbing into Oliver's lap, gently unfurling his fists to place his palms over his narrow hips. His nightshirt rode up in the process and barely covered him, but he didn't mind.

“Hey,” he said, brushing Oliver's hair back from his forehead. It needed a wash. “I'm right here.”

“Yeah.” Oliver breathed out, leaning closer. “I fought it, you know I did.” He whispered, his blue eyes staring into Elio's while his right arm was coming up around Elio's waist to hold him even closer.

“There's no need for that. I told you...” Their lips were only inches apart. Elio could feel Oliver's breath on his face. Up close, he saw that he'd cut himself while shaving in the morning, leaving a small slash on his chin. He smiled, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick the wound. 

When Oliver didn't pull back, Elio got bolder, his tongue flicking Oliver's lower lip, then touching his upper lip, tracing his Cupid's bow...

Suddenly, Oliver moved his face to the side, turned away before hugging Elio tighter, careful not to squeeze his injured ribs as he rested his chin on Elio's right shoulder.

“Not like this.” He whispered into Elio's ear. “I want you as a comrade, a friend. I have this ideal of us both, being affectionate towards each other, but without, you know, succumbing to those base, dirty, carnal instincts.”

Hearing this, Elio went rigid, grabbed Oliver's shoulder for balance and climbed off him, planting both of his naked feet on the wooden floor. Someone needed to sweep and maybe wax it because he felt dust and crumbs under his rough soles.

What was Oliver talking about?

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head to one side. Oliver's face was flushed and there was finally some fire behind his red-rimmed eyes again. “A friend? I thought we were friends... The things you did for me... Fuck, this is more than just being friends. I like you. Very much. You like me.” Elio lowered his eyes towards Oliver's crotch. “Very, very much as well, it seems. So, what's base and dirty about going for it?”

Oliver looked away as if he couldn't meet his eyes. “It's... filthy.”

“Not if we clean out before.”

“Metaphorically.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Elio, it's a carnal sin apart from its bodily implication. It's against God's will.”

“How can it be against God's will when so many people enjoy it?” Elio felt dumbstruck. “So what you're saying is that what you had with Pyotr was a dirty, filthy thing? That it was evil, a sin?”

“It killed him. The shame. The guilt. I understand it now. We should never have... gone that far. I just don't want to mess you up in the same way.”

“Well, I wasn't there, but what you told me sounded much more like he took his own life because he was denied to be with you.”

Oliver's expression hardened. “You're right. You weren't there.”

“But, Oliver-” Elio wanted to apologize. He couldn't believe that what he felt, that what they both felt, was ugly and evil when it was so... pure. Innocent. And utterly unconsummated for now. They hadn't exchanged more than a few shy touches and kisses...

“No but, Elio! You're too young to fully understand this... and with all you've been through... It's just a physical reaction. It'll pass if you exercise self-restraint.” Oliver was gesturing towards Elio's obviously tented nightshirt.

“But I don't want to exercise self-restraint, Oliver!” Elio almost shouted.

“Well, you should.” He got up, taking the bowl from Elio's nightstand. “This has gone cold now.” He sounded way too accusatory to be just lamenting over wasted food.

Elio stomped his foot, standing as tall as he could to stop Oliver from running away. “And those boys? All those dead boys no one cares about? So you're abandoning them, too?” Elio didn't want him to go, not like that.

“Well, they probably got what was coming for them anyway. We have to accept that their way of life leads to death and damnation.” Elio was sure that Oliver wanted to come over as firm and righteous, but he only sounded lost, as if repeating words that weren't his own, without conviction. “You're safe now. You've got away. Let's be thankful for that. For the others, we should pray. And let the police do their work.”

Suddenly, Elio just felt... empty. The pain he'd thought was gone returned in a blinding wave, and with it exhaustion. As much as he wanted to put up a fight, he couldn't, as black spots started to dance before his eyes and he had to reach for the bedpost to steady himself.

“I need to lie down.” He mumbled, crawling back into bed, kicking at Oliver as he tried to cover him with a blanket. 

He didn't register Oliver leaving the room, he was out so fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know how fractured bones were treated in the 19th century:  
https://www.melinadruga.com/treating-bone-fractures-in-the-early-20th-century/ 
> 
> Bellevue hospital has a fascinating history:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bellevue_Hospital 
> 
> https://www.thrillist.com/health/nation/bellevue-hospital-nyc-psych-ward-crazy-true-stories-history 
> 
> Oliver is cheating a bit when he tries to frighten Elio with Tchaikovsky's death.  
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21073251  
It's now believed that he died from Cholera, of which kidney failure can be a symptom. But there's also the theory that he committed suicide by swallowing arsenic because his homosexuality had come to light in certain influential St Petersburg circles.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, there's this writing advice: "Give your readers what they want, but not the way they want it."  
So, well, yeah...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my laptop died while editing, I'm not sure what I'm posting here.
> 
> I'm also sorry as the end of the chapter might bordering on non-con. But I promise that in the next chapter thing will finally unfold.

Over the next few weeks, Elio slowly recovered. His ribs healed, as did the sutures on his forehead where his hair grew back. When Oliver removed the stitches ten days after Elio had come home, all that was left was a bright pink scar already half-hidden by his curls. 

If the year went on like this, Elio might end up looking like Frankenstein's creature (a book Oliver was currently reading to him as they had finished the Dickens).

Yes, Oliver was still coming up to his chamber every night to read to him. The day after their fight he had done so tentatively, hesitating by the door. But Elio had been so bored that he had welcomed anything – or anyone - to break the dullness of his day spent in bed.

Oliver had just read to him for an hour, then excused himself and said good night.

By now, Elio was able to manage with the chamber pot alone. He wouldn't have been able to tolerate Oliver touching him like that after their row. Yet Oliver still took it downstairs and emptied it. It was bad enough.

The next day, Oliver had come up again with a jug of hot water, filling Elio's washbowl.

“You can do that on your own?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Elio had said briskly.

Slowly, some kind of truce was established between them. Elio still needed Oliver to help him. And Oliver still seemed willing to do so. Yet there was a new distance between them, a kind of businesslike manner.

No gentle touches anymore, no lingering hands, no warm looks. Oliver was still kind, though, and Elio really appreciated everything he did for him – but something had shifted. These things didn't come naturally anymore, there was a kind of formality to their actions that hadn't existed before in their routines.

It felt as if both of them now thought about what they did and said to each other. Before their fight, at least Elio hadn't minced his words. But now the easiness between them was gone. Oliver acted guarded as well.

Their talk evolved mostly around practical matters and Elio's health, leaving huge gaps of silences in their exchanges.

It was unnerving – but Elio had no idea how to bridge this new void as Oliver didn't lack politeness. He was just not providing Elio with a target he could hit to crack Oliver's armor.

When his week of bedrest finally came to an end, his broken arm still prevented Elio from doing chores, and so he only minded the pharmacy a few hours a day and otherwise read. He discovered that Oliver had gotten rid of his scientific texts – he had also unsubscribed to most newspapers – and now the space on the shelves in his study were filled with novels.

Elio consumed whatever he could find as soon as his headaches stopped: Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Herman Melville, Greek and Roman mythology, poems by Keats and Blake. What he most liked, however, striking a chord within his soul, was a small volume of fairy tales, written by someone called Oscar Wilde.

The story of Hans and Hugh made him wonder if that reflected Oliver's experiences with friendship. That one person always gave and the other took and took until there was nothing left to take... Did he maybe think Elio was also taking advantage of him, his money, his care? Should he be more grateful, show more respect, be more obedient?

But then he remembered how Oliver had trampled his feelings, had called them dirty and filthy... and something hardened inside Elio, frustration and disappointment forging what felt like a small stone in the pit of his stomach. There it sat, weighing him down.

He needed something to take his mind off Oliver and the hurtful things he'd said...

Despite not reading the newspapers anymore, Elio discovered that at least one more boy had been killed during his reconvalescence. The police surgeon McDougal came to visit again, obviously looking forward to having an audience for his gruesome tales, and so Elio overheard that a boy named Bobby Keen had been found dead in Chelsea Park that very morning. Not far away from the Everard baths...

“He had his testicles cut off, like the others and believe it or not-”

Just as McDougal was about to launch himself into the story, Oliver sent Elio to run an errant for Mrs Adams.

“I'm sure Mary will be pleased to see you.” He said, almost pushing Elio out the door with a parcel stuck under his good arm.

She was. Yet Elio wasn't too eager to meet her.

“What happened to you?” Mary asked after she'd opened the back door, intended for deliveries. “I heard you've been in hospital?” She looked at his broken arm still in a sling and her eyes went wide.

“Yeah, for a few days. I had an accident.” He held the parcel out for her to take. “Mr Molotok sends me over with this.”

“Oh, yes, that must be the medicine for Mrs Adams' niece. She came down from Boston, looking very pale and puffy, poor thing.” Mary seemed to have no intentions to close the door and get back to work. “Would you like to come in? It's so hot today. You might like a lemonade?” She smiled at him.

“Ughm... actually, Mr Molotok needs me at the pharmacy. It's a busy day.” Elio took a step back from the door.

“Can't he even be ten minutes without you?” Now Mary sounded wounded.

“Sorry.” Elio tried to smile and shrugged. “I have to work.” And with that, he turned on his heels and outright fled the premises.

Of course, McDougal was already gone when he returned to the shop.

“I told you, it's over.” Oliver said that evening over dinner.

“Well, it's not! You've heard what McDougal said!” Elio threw his fork onto the table. At least he was getting solid food again, though Oliver hat to cut his meat. Which was burned outside and almost raw inside. Cooking wasn't one of Oliver's skills. “Now there are ten dead boys!”

“We're not talking about it anymore, Elio.” Oliver's face turned stony.

“Ten!”

“Shut it!”

The rest of the meal was eaten in tense silence. Elio stared daggers at Oliver's back while he did the dishes afterwards.

Who did that man think he was to order Elio around like this, raising his voice?

_'You're not my father, Oliver!'_ Elio thought but he held his tongue and didn't push the matter further. If Oliver wasn't listening to him, he might have to go off on his own again... he wouldn't make the same mistake twice, though. This time, he would be more careful. And he needed to be fully recovered. There would be no use fighting the murderer with only one good arm.

Because of Elio's useless left arm, the household slowly descended into squalor. Meals were now prepared by Oliver (Elio refused to call charring food on the stove cooking) and sweeping, dusting or scrubbing the floors wasn't done at all. At least for the washing Oliver had hired someone, a sturdy woman named Liz with a big bosom and an even bigger mouth, who worked as the washwoman for the whole neighborhood.

She loved to gossip. And Elio loved to listen.

“Have you heard about them dead boys all over town? Pansies, they say. But who knows... I've heard people say it's sacrifices. Folks talk all sorts of nonsense, mind.” Liz had grinned, with both arms elbow-deep in the washtub in their backyard, her face red from exhaustion.

“Do you know anything about the last one, the boy they found in Chelsea Park?” Elio sat on the steps leading to the backdoor, sucking on a peppermint sweet. “His name was Bobby Keen.”

“Just what the maids got from the papers. I'm not a big reader myself but those girls are all blabbermouths. They chatter on and on while I'm doing all the work.” She brushed a lock of thin gray hair back from her forehead with one of her big wet hand, red and rough from decades of manual labor.

Elio nodded sympathetic, watching Liz wring the water from Oliver's shirts soaking in the big tub filled with hot, soapy water, popping another sweet in his mouth.

“They say he'd been cut open, all his guts taken out. Like you do with pigs for slaughter. I remember my uncle doing it with his pigs.” She licked her lips. “Made fine blood pudding. And sausages. Speaking of... the boy had his cut off, too, I've heard. Horrible.” She shook her head yet her eyes glittered with excitement.

“Why do they say he was a pansy?” Elio asked as casually as possible.

“Oh, he was wearing a dress, something rather fine, made of silk. Why would a boy do that? His poor mother...”

“Yes.” Elio tried to look shocked. “Was it mentioned where the family lived?”

“Somewhere on Bleecker Street, I think.” Liz narrowed her eyes, stopping to scrub one of Elio's drawers on the washboard. “You're quite nosy, boy. What is it-”

“Oh, I think Mr Molotok just called for me. I must run.” He jumped up as quick as he could with just one arm for balance and rushed inside, mulling over what he'd just heard as he sauntered over into the shop.

If Oliver wanted to stop looking into the murders there was nothing Elio could do to convince him otherwise. Didn't mean he had to stop himself, though... He knew Bleecker Street well. Might be worth a visit...

So, when Oliver was making a house call to Mrs Adams and her poor sick niece the next evening, Elio sneaked out as well.

Now, in the early summer, the crowded tenements were stoking up with the heat, and so all life happened outside. People even slept in the streets or on the rooftops, from where from time to time some unfortunate soul plummeted to death.

It was around nine when Elio arrived, and the place was still swarming with men, women and children cooking, eating, talking,laughing, and occasionally fighting. Some had taken battered chairs outside on the pavement, but most just stood around or sat on the curb, trying to catch at least a whiff of the slightly cooler evening breeze (which here smelled of rot, mold, and excrements).

Asking around, Elio was eventually pointed towards a group of people a little apart from the hubbub: a gaunt woman wearing a moth-eaten shawl covering her head despite the warmth (Elio wasn't sure if it was truly black or just very dirty), her gnarled fingers clasped together in her lap, sat in an entryway of a crumbling tenement. Next to her huddled a bunch of grimy children, snot-nosed even in the summer, eyes big with hunger, dressed in rags.

“Mrs Keen?” Elio asked, removing his flat cap with his good hand.

The eyes that met him were blank with desperation.

“Yes.” Her voice was flat.

“I'm a friend of your son Bobby.”

Now her dead eyes filled with tears. “Bobby.” The children around her ducked even closer hearing the name of their dead brother.

“I'm so sorry for... your loss.” It sounded so empty. Suddenly, Elio had no idea why he'd come here. What was the point of disturbing this family who'd suffered enough already, reminding them once again of a wound that could never heal?

The woman didn't say anything, just stared at him.

Elio forced himself to ask a question: “I... you don't happen to know where Bobby went the night he... vanished?” 

“He went out as usual.” As the woman spoke Elio saw that her front teeth were missing, giving her a heavy lisp. “He went out most nights, you know.” For a moment, a soft smile transformed her features, making her look much younger, probably way closer to her real age. “Brought money home in the mornings.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it with the filthy hem of her skirt, exposing a naked, skinny leg. “What are we going to do now, without him? We'll starve to death...” She buried her face in her hands. Some of the kids started sniveling as well.

“Was he... did he ever mention a man with a mustache? Or... Chinese silk?”

“How was Bobby to know Chinese silk? He worked in a bar, washing glasses, mopping the floor.”

If that's what she wanted to believe Elio didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Yet he had to try again: “Did he ever talk about someone who hurt him?”

“Hurt him? There were all sorts of drunks but no, no one ever hurt him until that night...” She blew her nose noisily into the folds of her skirt. “What happened to your arm?” She pointed at Elio as if seeing him for the first time.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Bobby never broke anything. He wasn't clumsy. He was smart. And so beautiful. He had big blue eyes like his father...” She fell silent, probably remembering better times.

“I'm so sorry.” Elio mumbled again, took a step closer, pressed a Dollar into the woman's dirty palm and was about to leave when she grabbed his hands and spoke again: “God bless you. He liked to go up to the baths on Sunday. Liked to keep clean, having a wash. He was very neat, was my Bobby.” 

“The Everard baths?” Elio asked.

“Yes, I think so. Up 28th Street.” She was staring at the money in her hand when Elio walked away.

_'So he's still hunting there.'_ He thought on his way home._ 'Even his encounter with me didn't stop him from going back there. He must feel quite safe.'_

For now, there was nothing Elio could do about it. He briefly thought about telling Ellison to seek out the baths... but he doubted he would have a chance to contact him without Oliver noticing. Maybe even his absence tonight had already been discovered?

Elio didn't dare to annoy Oliver. He wasn't sure how he would react should he learn about Elio's disobedience. Maybe he would even throw him out? He'd seemed brooding and ill-tempered these past few days, spending a lot of time alone in his laboratory.

Being back in a place like Bleecker Street had shown Elio that he really didn't want to live like this anymore, not now when he had experienced the comforts and safety of... yeah, a home. The first home he'd ever had. 

He would have to go about this investigation really careful and in secret to not rile Oliver up.

Finally, on a fine Summer's day, a doctor at Bellevue hospital removed the cast. Elio's left arm looked pale and spindly even to him and felt eerily light when he moved it. Yet everything had healed perfectly, even the wound where his broken bones had pierced his skin.

“Can you move your fingers, please?” The surgeon asked. 

Elio could, grinning up at Oliver who smiled back at him. A rare occasion these days.

But apparently, today was a good day. To celebrate Elio's recovery, Oliver even took him to a bookshop.

“As you've become an avid reader, I thought you might want to choose a book for yourself.” Oliver smiled, his fingers touching the colorful spines on the shelf in front of them. “What would you like?”

“Do you think they stock anything by Oscar Wilde?” Elio asked.

Oliver blushed, his back going rigid as the old bookseller threw them a look from behind the counter, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Can I ask?” Elio was about to walk up to the counter when Oliver grabbed his arm – the left one, making Elio wince - and pulled him from the shop, mumbling excuses.

“What the hell, Oliver, let go. You're hurting me! I thought you wanted to buy me a book?”

“Well, not when you talk about... that particular author.” Oliver whispered, not looking at him.

“Why? I like him. And you own one of his books. What did he do? Did he expose himself in front of his queen or something?”

Oliver led him with quick strides into Gramercy Park and sat him down on a bench. There, he took a few deep breaths.

“Oscar Wilde was sent to jail for... gross indecency. There was a trail a few years back, in London. It became notorious.”

“Gross indecency?” Elio didn't quite catch on. “So he did pull his willy out-”

“He took boys to a hotel to have... unnatural relations with them.” Oliver's voice was low as he still avoided Elio's eyes. A young mother passed them, pushing a big black pram.

“Oh, you mean he fucked them?” Elio didn't even try to keep his voice down.

“For god's sake, Elio!” The woman turned towards them. Oliver tipped his hat. “But yes, there was a huge scandal involving the son of a Lord, and Wilde ended up in prison. He lost everything: his reputation as a writer, his wife and children, his friends, his income.” The look on Oliver's face was pained as he squinted in the warm sunlight. “Better not mention him.”

“You have one of his books.” Elio repeated.

“Yes, I do.” Oliver stared into the distance, then smiled absentmindedly at the young mother now sitting on another bench opposite them.

“Because he's like... us?”

Oliver sat up straighter. “No. No, he's not like me. Not at all.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “We have to get back to the shop.”

He rose.

“And my book?” Elio decided to be petulant.

“Not today. I think we still have to work on your reading portfolio.” When Oliver turned his back towards him, Elio pulled a face. The woman watching them shook her head at his impertinence but Elio didn't care.

The first few days, he kept dropping things. But he felt much more himself again, having regained use of both his arms and hands.

For various purposes, some of which making him slightly ashamed. But what could he do if nature demanded... attention, and nobody, especially not Oliver, was ready to provide help with scratching his particular itch?

As they didn't return to the bookshop and Oliver had developed the habit of staying late in his little laboratory, mixing god knew what concoctions, Elio was rummaging through his study alone a few nights later (their murder wall had long gone, too, and the oil painting was back in its place over the fireplace), searching for something to read instead of soiling himself again (he might still do that later if he couldn't sleep, though).

Stuffed at the back of a shelf, he more felt than saw a small black book. Intrigued, he pulled it out, gazing at its title: 'The Ballad Of Reading Goal'. As he opened it he saw a familiar name on the frontispiece.

“Traitor.” He mumbled as he sat on the carpet and started to read.

By the last verse, his head was spinning and his eyes burned.

_'Yet each man kills the thing he loves_  
_By each let this be heard._  
_Some do it with a bitter look,_  
_Some with a flattering word._  
_The coward does it with a kiss,_  
_The brave man with a sword!'_

He had to swallow, the hands holding the small book trembling. When he closed his eyes, he saw Charlie's dead body again, covered in blood. He saw the man's face, his thin mustache, his cold pale eyes...

_'Each man kills the thing he loves'_

As he was about to put the book back where he'd found it there fell from its back a few hand-written pages. At first, Elio thought it was a letter. But when he started to decipher the scrawl it became clear that it was some sort of report.

_'Davy said that he fell asleep on the drive and only woke when they arrived at a big house. There, the man drew him a bath and told him to get in while he watched. Afterwards, Davy agreed to be penetrated with a brush handle. As this didn't seem to sufficiently excite his john, it was negotiated that he would next use a wine bottle, increasing the promised pay to one Dollar. When Davy screamed at the intrusion the man first stuffed a silk scarf into his mouth, then brought a long knife to his throat, threatening to cut it if he didn't shut up._  
_Afterwards, upon receiving the agreed sum, Davy stumbled from the house, in pain, bleeding and half unconscious. He didn't watch where he was going.'_

Elio turned the page, his heart beating faster.

_'A boy named Nicholas tells me that a man with a mustache made him get into a Hansom. It was already late and he fell asleep, but woke up when they reached a huge white house with a red bird in a window above the door._  
_The man made him take a bath, then played with his cock for a while, staying fully clothed himself. When Nicholas told him that he was about to shoot, the man took out a pocketknife and made a few shallow cuts to his stomach, watching the blood well up._  
_Nicholas got afraid and left soon after, running all the way back to his tenement, without registering where he had been. He thinks the house was somewhere on 5th Avenue but can't say for certain.'_

_'A boy named Toni says that a friend of his went with a man he met at Paresis Hall. He claims his friend boasted that he earned one Dollar for taking a bath, wearing a silk robe and putting a candle up his bum. When Toni called him a liar because no one would pay so much money for something this weird, the friend said it had happened at a posh white house near Central Park and the man must have been loaded.'_

_'A young man who calls himself Rico tells me that he met a man with a mustache at the Everard baths. He proposed to him to wear a dress and put a bottle up his behind, which Rico declined as he doesn't do this sort of thing.'_

There was more but Elio felt he'd read enough.

He balled the pages in his fist and ran downstairs, barging into Oliver's laboratory without even knocking, waving the crumbled papers in the air.

“You had all these and you said nothing! Nothing! It's all in here, knives, a silk robe, cutting, putting something up their-”

“Elio!” Oliver barked. “How dare you look through my things!” Oliver's face was red with rage as he got up from the stool he'd been sitting on, bent over his counter, stirring something into a tall glass filled with a yellow fluid.

“I was just searching for something to read. And you hid it in an Oscar Wilde book! After the little speech you gave me... god, you're such a liar!”

“I didn't want to-”

“What?” Elio exploded.

“I didn't want to put you in danger.” Oliver looked aghast, visibly shaken.

This calmed Elio a little. “So you followed these up? Did you get them from Ellison?”

“Yes. I read them but... honestly, it only proves what we already know. A man with a mustache, well-off, a house up 5th Avenue or there about, who picks up boys from the street, or Paresis Hall, or those baths, the bathing, the dressing up... it doesn't get us anywhere near the murderer; or why he does what he does. And after what happened to you I don't really want to know anymore.”

“But if we find the boys telling these stories, maybe if we questioned them, we could-”

“No, we couldn't. Besides, I tried, but I can't find them. When I ask for them no one knows anything.”

“They probably think you're police. Or someone crazy. Everyone's afraid right now. But I could find them. I could-”

“Elio, no! He knows you. You were fortunate to barely escaped him twice. Don't test your luck.”

“Three's the charm.” Elio grinned.

“Stop it!” Oliver brought his hand down onto the counter so hard that his flasks and bottles bounced and rattled. Elio froze. “This isn't a joke. Didn't you tell me something like this in the beginning, that it wasn't a game? I should have listened to you and burned these papers.”

“But you didn't.” Elio said carefully.

“Elio, I want these murders to stop as much as anyone. But it's not our calling to do so.”

“Let me at least talk to Bella again. I'm sure he met our murderer.”

“No!”

“I wasn't asking your permission.” Elio could be at least as stubborn as Oliver.

“As long as you stay at my house my rules apply.” Oliver's voice had gone cold, a finger pointing at Elio. “And my rules are-”

“Yes, I know! No touching, staying friends” Elio spat the word out “and no murder hunting. But, you know what? This guy is killing my friends. He's killing people like me and I have evidence for it and I'm not sitting cozily in your kitchen, eating your food, sleeping in a warm bed while my own kind gets slaughtered!”

He threw the pages at Oliver – they fluttered rather undramatic to the floor – and stormed out, stomping up the stairs to his chamber where he opened his chest of drawers. He was throwing his clothes onto the floorboards when he more felt than heard Oliver approach.

“What are you doing?”

When Elio turned, he saw that he was still wearing his white laboratory overcoat protecting his shirt and trousers from stains.

“I'm leaving. Thank you for the clothes. Keep my wage for this week and we're quit.”

“Elio-”

“No, you said if I want to stay I'll have to follow your rules. But I can't do that, Oliver.” He suddenly felt tears well up in his eyes. “I just can't.” He angrily wiped his eyes. He had to stop crying in front of Oliver.

“And where will you go?” Oliver was blocking the door with his huge body.

“Dunno. Back to Mulberry Street. What is it to you anyway?”

“You really want to throw your life away like that?” Oliver sounded grave.

“And what if? At least I'm honest and not hiding behind this stupid respectability!” He was yelling now because it was preferable to sobbing, yet his voice sounded thin.

“Is that so? I didn't know you enjoyed selling yourself to men so much!”

“Maybe you don't know me at all, Oliver. It's not that you ever made an effort – and I'm not just talking the biblical sense here.”

Suddenly, Oliver grabbed him by his still weak left arm, propelled him around, pressed him against the wall by the window, and kissed him.

It was neither tender nor gentle. It was hard, bruising, desperate.

Elio opened his mouth and gave as good as he got.

One of them moaned – Elio wasn't sure who – and then large hands were all over him, tearing off his braces, pulling his shirt loose from his trousers, kicking his feet apart to get better access...

Elio's hands flew to the buttons of Oliver's overcoat but there wasn't enough space to maneuver. When he didn't stop fumbling Oliver pinned both his hands above his head.

“That what you want?” He panted against Elio's open mouth.

“Not bad for the start.” Elio smirked.

Oliver took a step back, a dazed expression on his face. “Take your clothes off, I'll be right back.”

Elio did as he was told, his hands shaking, kneeling stark naked on the bed when Oliver returned a moment later, placing a jar of petroleum jelly on the nightstand. As the evenings were long and light already the room was bathed in twilight, enough for both of them to look their fill.

“Turn around, on your side, face the wall.” Oliver said, his voice rough. It sounded like an order.

Elio had been hard from kissing and in anticipation of more to come but now his erection was rapidly flagging. He longed for passion, tenderness. Yet this felt more like a business transaction, like something one of his johns would have said. But he did as he was told, turned away, lay still and waited.

Maybe Oliver was just shy?

He heard Oliver's clothes rustling but didn't look. Then his warm body slid next to Elio before pulling the sheet up to cover them both.

Instead of kissing him again Elio heard the lid of the jar screwed open.

“Oliver-”

“Shh, don't say a word.”

Then a slick hand was between Elio's legs, but not where he'd expected – or feared? - it would go, but instead smearing greasy jelly onto the inside of his thighs.

“Keep your legs together. Tight. Don't move.”

Oliver's hard cock replaced his hand, sliding into the slippery crevice Elio's thighs provided. He thrust a few times, brushing against Elio's taint, the underside of his balls, one hand on Elio's hip to hold him in place, the other pushed into his hair.

It wasn't bad, but it didn't do much for Elio either.

After maybe half a minute, he heard a huff, a groan, and then Oliver spilled between his legs, warm and wet. It felt... strange.

“Oliver?” If Elio had expected that he would be taken care of next, he was mistaken. For Oliver rolled away immediately and got up. When Elio dared to turn, he just saw him gathering his clothes before he left the chamber, his white bum the last thing catching Elio's eye before he firmly closed the door.

Elio lay in the wet spot, jelly mixed with cum drying between his legs, and wondered what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Devoted Friend is a story by Wilde published in The Happy Prince:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Happy_Prince_and_Other_Tales#%22The_Devoted_Friend%22 
> 
> Chealsea Park is where the L'Uomo Vogue photoshoot took place with Tim. I cheated a bit here again as it wasn't opened till 1910:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chelsea_Park 
> 
> The Ballad Of Reading Goal was published in 1898:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ballad_of_Reading_Gaol


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver have a BIG conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hurt last week. Here comes comfort & fluff :)

They didn't talk about it the next morning. Oliver was maybe even more taciturn than he had been the last few days, just swallowing his porridge before getting busy in the pharmacy way before opening hours.

He had already shaved himself.

Elio was left to clean up, and took his time. He had no idea what to do, feeling for once totally out of his depth.

He had wanted... something to happen. But not... like this. But what _had_ he wanted, then? And how to tell Oliver if he couldn't put his desires into words himself?

When Oliver spoke to him during that day, it was curt, almost harsh.

He even skipped dinner and went out to dine with Mrs Adams and her niece, something that hadn't occurred ever since Elio had moved in with him.

Maybe he should also ask Mary out again? Even if it was just to spite Oliver...

He tried to read but couldn't concentrate on his book. In the end, he took the photograph of his family from where he kept it in his chest of drawers and stared at it until the fading light blurred the faces.

On days like these, he missed his mother terribly. Though could he have talked to her about his feelings for another man? Would she have understood? 

Maybe she would just have told him to follow his heart – in the hope that it wouldn't lead him to a man like his father. Had she loved him once? Had he been a different man back in Italy? 

Elio wished he could remember.

When Oliver wasn't back by eleven he locked every door except the one in the backyard and went to bed, pulling the sheet over his head.

Tonight, the empty house frightened him a little. The wooden beams creaked and ached. He wasn't used to being alone and the silence felt too loud, outright disturbing. In the end, he put his chair beneath the doorhandle – just in case.

He was woken up some time later by heavy footfall on the stairs. There was a knock on his door, followed by an attempt to open it. Yet his makeshift barricade worked.

“Elio?” Oliver's voice, rough, low.

He pretended to be asleep, turning towards the wall, his face buried in the pillow.

After a minute, the footsteps retreated down the stairs again.

But Elio couldn't go to back to sleep again. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling instead, wondering why Oliver had come to him – and if he should have let him in.

After tossing and turning all night, he got up at the crack of dawn, didn't bother to dress as it was summer, and just went downstairs in his shirt to fire the stove and make coffee. To his surprise, Oliver came into the kitchen shortly afterwards, looking tired and worn-out, just in his sleepshirt as well, but with a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Morning.” He yawned, scratching his stubbly chin.

Elio only hummed noncommittally in response.

“You made coffee.”

“Nothing escapes you.” Elio bit out, surprised by his own bitterness. He pointedly didn't pour Oliver a mug, just poked the already nicely burning fire some more.

Oliver sighed and filled his mug himself with the strong black brew.

“Did someone have fun last night?” Elio couldn't help it, he had to pick at it.

“Actually, yes. We played a few rounds of Whist.”

Elio snorted. “That's how you call it with the upper classes? Isn't Mrs Adams a bit too old for you? And a bit too married?”

“Her niece joined us. Her name's Ann.”

Elio slammed his mug down so hard the coffee sloshed over before storming out into the yard, still barefoot. There he stood staring at the brick walls surrounding him, feeling trapped. He wanted to scream. Liz's washing flapped in the morning breeze as if to mock him.

“Elio?”

“Why did you come up to my room last night?” He didn't turn around.

“Because... I wanted to apologize.”

“Ha. I don't believe you.”

“Why did you bolt the door?”

“Because..._ because_! .. I was alone and... what did you want to apologize for?” Now he turned around, squinting up at Oliver in the early morning sunlight.

“Can we please go back inside so the neighbors don't have to hear us... airing our dirty laundry in public?”

Elio balled his hands into fists but followed Oliver back into the kitchen. There, Oliver sat down at the table, sighing heavily.

“Elio, what we did that night... we can't keep doing that. I know how it ends.” Oliver swallowed, looking at his hands spread out on the tabletop.

“You should have thought about that before getting into my bed.” Elio kept standing, crossing his arms over his chest. Making a point.

“Believe me, I did.”

“Do you regret it?” Did he?

“Well, I thought, if I could get it out of my system, when I could just have you once... I won't lie to you, I do feel a strong attraction towards you. But I don't think this will make either of us happy.”

Elio was silent for a moment, processing Oliver's words. “Did it help?”

“What do you mean?” Oliver eventually looked up at him.

“Did you get it out of your system? Or did you make it so unpleasant on purpose because you thought if I hated it... you... I wouldn't want to do it again?

“What?” Oliver frowned, looking confused.

“Oh, come on. You didn't even really touch or kiss me. You just got off and left, not caring about me.” The feeling of having been used welled up again and Elio had to swallow it down like bile.

“But... but this is how Pyotr and I always... did it. He always said that when there's no... penetration... it's not illegal. And not as big a sin. Just... mechanical... satisfaction...” Oliver was blushing hard by now.

Elio just stared at him, gobsmacked. “This is how you did it? No touching, no kissing? I had men paying me who were more tender than you!” He couldn't believe Oliver was serious.

“Pyotr... wasn't exactly the... tender type. He... didn't like the... physical act.” Oliver mumbled, looking intensely at a spot next to Elio's bare, cold feet.

It suddenly dawned on Elio that back in Russia Oliver had probably been in the position he'd found himself in the other night. Had Oliver never experienced a gentle touch, a sweet kiss? No wonder he thought bad of the things Elio longed for to experience with him.

And now big, strong, kind, intelligent Oliver was sitting in his own kitchen looking crestfallen as he had to confess that the only man he'd ever loved had been unable to make him feel good, to show him physical affection.

Hesitantly, Elio went over to the table, slid onto the bench next to Oliver and took his right hand, carefully stroking it until he relaxed his fingers and answered Elio's squeeze.

“So he never... took care of you?”

Oliver just shook his head. “He let me do that. Afterwards. Alone.”

An irrational wrath against Pyotr welled up inside Elio. “It doesn't have to be like that!” He said, his voice loud in the early morning quiet of their kitchen.

“But how... with two men? I mean, I know how, but not, you know, with feelings...” Oliver briefly closed his eyes; the woolen blanket had slid off his right shoulder and Elio rested his head against it. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Did Pyotr hurt you?” Elio whispered.

He felt Oliver swallow a few times but didn't look up at him, giving him at least some privacy while he kept stroking his huge hand with his thumb, bony and small in comparison. “Well, we only did... it... a few times. In the beginning. I didn't like it. It wasn't...” Silence. “I don't think he hurt me on purpose.” Said so low Elio did barely catch it.

“I know how painful it can be.” Elio felt on the edge of losing it. How could anyone not take the utmost care when with Oliver? How could anyone not want this man, not want to give him joy, to make him happy? “But when done slow and... right, it can feel quite nice.”

“Can it, though?” Oliver sounded so small, doubtful. “I mean... how could it be... for you, with strangers?”

Elio took a deep breath and allowed his mind to wander back and replay all sorts of acts he'd performed with men. “I don't much care for fucking, to be honest. A cock up my ass is usually... uncomfortable,“ he felt Oliver squirm next to him, “but I wouldn't say that having relations with men per se is unpleasant. Some things some men did... well, they weren't so bad. Like, just touching me, with a lot of spit, or using their mouths, sucking, licking, or just playing with my tits.” He remembered one guy who couldn't get enough of his little nipples and grinned. “And, you know, there's this spot up your ass, and if you crook your finger a little and rub it... I go off like a canon.” He heard Oliver snort a low laugh. “It's true.” Elio turned a little sideways, nosing Oliver's stubbly jaw. “And sometimes, when it was very cold, we boys just cuddled, and that's nice. We warmed each other... and then, you know...,” Elio made a gesture between his legs, “a hand would slide into your trousers, making you feel good. There's nothing about it, really.”

“It's unhealthy and unnatural.” But Oliver leaned closer despite his words.

“Well, that's said about most fun things.”

“It's against the law.”

“Dito.” Elio chuckled.

Oliver's body went rigid again.

“I want to make my family proud. When they sent me here, they were hoping for me to find a nice young woman...” Oliver's voice broke and Elio averted his gaze because he feared Oliver was silently crying.

“Instead you found me. I don't look so bad in a dress either. I might even fool your parents' scrutiny.”

When Oliver laughed it sounded like a sob. “But what do we do about children. Surely you wouldn't go that far?”

“Never underestimate me.” Elio couldn't help it, he giggled.

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Oliver pressed his lips into Elio's unkempt curls and Elio reveled in their closeness for a moment, breathing in Oliver's smell – stale sweat, a hint of brandy and tobacco smoke from last night, this morning's coffee, the ever present tar-like scent Elio now knew came from the carbolic soap he used to disinfect his hands - before he looked up. Oliver's blue eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. 

He touched his cheek, feeling his rough, golden stubble against his fingertips.

How could a grown man be so innocent? With everything he'd been through and saw on a daily basis, how could he stay kind and sensitive and considerate? Why did he still care for his parents, who sent him away into exile? How could he still care for Elio, who must look sinful and debauched to him?

“Why don't you throw me out? Why do you even bother with me?”

“Because you're so much better than me.”

“What?” Elio moved away a little to look into Oliver's face. Was he taking the piss? But he seemed serious.

“You don't hate yourself, your desires. You don't deny what you are. You never gave up on those boys.”

“You neither.” Elio protested.

“You have no idea... I wanted to jump off that ship which brought me here. I would have done it if it wouldn't have meant wiping out one mortal sin with another. But I felt as if drowning all the time. I couldn't breathe. My future was a long dark tunnel with no redemption at its end.”

Elio grabbed his chin between thumb and forefinger, hard, holding Oliver in place so he couldn't look away. “Don't you dare! You're the best and kindest man I've ever met. Don't you dare try to do anything stupid! Don't even think about it!”

“Elio, I-”

“Oh, shut up, you!” And he kissed him. Not as hard as Oliver had done two nights ago, but firm as well, hoping to convey his serious intentions. He let the kiss linger for a moment, his lips pressed against Oliver's, before pulling back a little to lick first his lower and then his upper lip.

Oliver's eyes fluttered shut.

“I do think that, no matter how hard we try... we just can't go against our true nature. And if feeling like this for each other is our true nature – how can it be unnatural? We don't do any harm to anyone.” Elio whispered.

Now it was Oliver's head on his shoulder, his nose pressed against Elio's neck. “You're so very wise, Elio.” Oliver's breath ghosted over Elio's skin while he stayed like this, his huge frame almost doubled over. Elio took the blanket and draped it back over his broad shoulders before pulling him even closer, feeling the stiff muscles in his back relax as he stroked it up and down. 

They sat like this for a long moment until Oliver said: “But, just think for a moment. We might not do any harm, yet, but this man murdering boys... is he so different from us? Are his desires so different from what I feel for you? You know, sometimes when I'm just looking at you... or watch you shaving me... I get the most... intense fantasies.” His face felt hot and his hand in Elio's clammy.

Elio shushed him with another squeeze. “We're not like him. You don't want to hurt me, and neither do I. But maybe... maybe the murderer became the way he is because he doesn't know how to... love? Maybe he hates himself so much for how he feels that he rather wants to destroy and kill what he loves? Maybe that's his twisted way to take care of someone?”

_'Each man kills the thing he loves'._

“That is... a very interesting thought.” Oliver sat up, already slipping away.

But Elio didn't let go of his hand.

“Can we, maybe, discuss this further somewhere else? In your bed, perhaps? My feet are freezing.” Elio tried to smile. Oliver looked a little shocked at first but then agreed.

“We still have a few hours before we have to open the pharmacy.”

Walking up the stairs, Elio couldn't avert his eyes from the rosy soles of Oliver's bare feet. So delicate, almost like a child's, as if he'd never trodden this vile, dirty, soiled earth. 

The early morning sun was already shining through the window blinds, leaving bright stripes on the sheets under which they huddled close, Elio actually holding Oliver against his chest, stroking his fine blond hair.

“So, you're still thinking about the murders?” Oliver asked after some minutes, his eyes closed, a serene expression on his face.

“Of course I am. Aren't you?”

“Yes, though... I wished I wasn't. Not now.”

“That's why you got rid of your books?”

“I didn't get rid of them, I just hid them in the laboratory. Wait.” He opened his eyes and peered up at Elio. “How do you know about my books?”

“I read them. A little. They gave me nightmares.”

Oliver hugged him closer around the waist. “I wish I had a remedy against your bad dreams. A potion to make them go away. I hear you, most nights. You... it's sounds like you're crying, pleading. Sometimes you scream.”

“Sorry for waking you up.” Elio bent over and pressed a kiss to Oliver's temple.

“No, I'm sorry that you have to endure this.”

“Most nights I don't remember...”

“It's not just about the murderer, is it?”

Elio shrugged. He didn't want to think, even less talk about those things that crept up at him during some nights.

“Is it about those men who... violated you?”

“Violated is a rather strong word.” Elio's hand stilled in Oliver's hair, then started to slightly tremble.

“No one should do these things-”

“Oliver, can you stop? Isn't this nice? We're not doing anything untoward-”

“-to a child.”

“I'm not a _child_!”

“You are! And grown men did things to you they shouldn't have.” Oliver's arm tightened around his middle.

“Why do you always have to make this about me?”

“Because I care for you, very much! And if _I _had to listen to _you_, you now have to listen to _me_. Affection can be expressed in different ways than... you know... via sodomy.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Elio punched him, but not hard.

“Ouch.” Oliver turned on his back, his head still lying in Elio's lap, gazing up at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “This is nice. I never knew it could be so nice.”

“Just give it time.” Elio resumed his idle caress, twirling a golden lock around his finger.

“Can I kiss you?” Oliver was staring at Elio's mouth now.

“No.” Elio shook his head, trying to pout, biting his lower lip to suppress a grin.

“Please?”

It was not much more than a lingering peck, but now Elio felt some sort of emotion behind it, as if Oliver was opening up a little.

“I like kissing you.” Elio felt Oliver smile against his mouth.

“And I like kissing _you_.” Elio leaned in again, parting his lips, his tongue darting out...

“No, no, no. Not so fast.”

“Fast?” Elio whined.

“I know myself. If you give me this I'll take and take until... you're still so young, Elio.”

Elio shook his head. “I've been earning my keep since I was eleven. I told you, I'm not a child.”

“You're not an adult either. You're still very impressionable.”

“Don't overestimate your... influence. Besides, I'm almost 16.”

“Are you now?”

“Well, the clerk only came to our village once a year, so all births were registered on July 1st. And that's my birthday now.”

“It's in two weeks.”

Elio nodded, arching an eyebrow in what he hoped was a provocative way.

“Let me take you out. I know we're trying to catch a murderer, but still. We have to celebrate that day.” Oliver's eagerness made Elio smile.

“Okay.” He bit his lip. No one had ever made an effort for his birthday.

“Leave it to me.”

“I like surprises.” Elio stroked Oliver's cheek, then kissed the tip of his nose. “You never said, have you spoken to Ellison again.”

“You know how to kill the mood.“ Oliver sighed and sat up and leaned against the headboard next to Elio, getting a bit more businesslike. “The warning he put out to his boys might have slowed the killer down but he still found two new victims. And as I said, those statements you found, which he collected for us, only confirm what we already know. His boys now don't go up 5th Avenue but others step in, filling the gap. There's not much we can do. The murderer will always find a poor kid that prefers going with him to starving in the street.”

“It's so...”

“Unfair. Horrible. Savage. That boys have to do these things... Promise me, you'll never sell yourself again.” Oliver sounded so grave it made Elio nervous. Because what else could he do should Oliver get weary of him? Which was a possibility he couldn't ignore. Life had taught Elio that you should never take things for granted.

And as Oliver didn't even really want to have sexual relations with him, how long would it take until he discovered that there were better cooks, housemaids, helps around than a scrawny boy who looked like something the cat had dragged in...?

“I... don't know. It depends...” He stuttered.

As if Oliver had read his thoughts, he didn't allow Elio to finish: “I wanted to offer this to you for a while now, but then your injury got in the way. What would you say if I took you in as my apprentice? I'll teach you all you have to know about pharmacology. You're not just my servant. You're my... friend?” Oliver's blue eyes were full of hope.

“Friend?”

Oliver sat up, took Elio's face in both of his hands. “You're my brother, my family.”

“Am I?” Oliver's words rang so sincere, Elio had trouble processing what he'd heard.

“Do you really not know how much you mean to me, Elio?”

As words failed him, Elio closed the space between them, his tongue seeking entrance into Oliver's mouth, and this time it was eventually granted. He ended up climbing into Oliver's lap, but neither of them made an attempt to remove their clothes. They just kissed for a while until parting for breath.

“You really mean that, giving a guttersnipe like me a future?” Elio asked when they pulled apart. He still couldn't believe it.

“Yes, I do.” Oliver smiled broadly, pinching Elio's side. 

He yelped.

“_Are.You.Ticklish.My.Dear.Elio_?” Oliver accentuated each word with another poke to Elio's ribs.

They ended up in a pile of limps entangled within the crumpled sheets, Elio pinned to the mattress beneath Oliver's body, both crying with laughter and out of breath.

“Stoooop. Pleeaaase!” Elio wailed.

“Only if you declare surrender!” Oliver's face was red from exhaustion, dark streaks of hair sticking to his forehead. He looked so young it was almost shocking.

“I surrender.” Elio gasped.

He was rewarded with the release of his arms and another quick kiss. His lips felt swollen by now from Oliver's stubble.

“Lets get some decent breakfast. I'll help.” Oliver offered, rolling onto his side.

Elio shuddered. “Better not. It's a miracle I survived your cooking skills thus far.” He crawled out of bed, escaping another attack from Oliver, walking backwards to the door, smoothing his shirt down.

“I'm deeply offended.” Came a voice from under the blanket. “I nurtured a viper on my bosom!” When Oliver's head stuck out from under the covers, his hair standing up in all directions, Elio burst out laughing.

“Don't get dressed. I'll shave you after breakfast.”

“And then we open up our shop.”

Oliver looked as happy as Elio felt.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Elio's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter features the most explicit scene in this story.

The next week was one of the best of Elio's life so far. And one of the most exhausting. Because Oliver meant what he'd said. Elio had to learn a lot. About pills and potions and herbs and chemistry and medicine and anatomy and what not.

In the evenings, his head was spinning but Oliver still made him write down everything they'd done that day in a black ledger.

Elio fell into bed by nine every night, just after supper (mostly bread, cheese, pickles, and occasionally a bagel with salted beef).

Oliver's bed.

Where Oliver joined him some time later so they woke up together the next morning, cuddling and kissing a few minutes before starting into a new day filled with discoveries.

The household was becoming a mess again, though. Because Elio didn't have neither time nor energy to take care of cleaning any longer in addition to studying. And Oliver was useless when confronted with even the most basic chores. 

On the weekend, it took Elio the whole Sunday to scrub the floors, wipe the shop windows, and do some dusting and the dishes. Thank god Liz would come in on Monday for their laundry, otherwise they would have to walk around naked. 

When Oliver offered to help Elio just rolled his eyes and pushed him aside.

“I'm not sure you know which side of the broom is used for sweeping. Just don't stand in my way.”

So Oliver busied himself in the kitchen, brewing something he called borscht.

To Elio, it tasted vile but he wolfed it down nonetheless. At least it was warm and better than nothing. Marginally.

Yet when Oliver told him that he'd made enough to last a few days, Elio snapped.

“You need to hire someone for the housework!” He blurted out, throwing his spoon onto the table.

“I have. She starts tomorrow.” Oliver grinned at him over the rim of his bowl of soup. Elio was so grateful he didn't even mind the pink mush anymore.

Ethel was thirteen, pale, small for her age, with black curls and a sharp tongue– and frighteningly sufficient.

She moved into Elio's vacated chamber on Monday. Elio had no idea where Oliver had found her but he was too happy for her arrival to ask too many nosy questions.

It turned out that she was also a great cook.

“If she ever wants to leave one of us has to marry her.” Elio told Oliver on Wednesday, after dinner. He'd never eaten something this good. The lamb had been soft and juicy, the potatoes firm to the bite, and the green beans salted just right.

“Agreed. But we'll draw matches.” Oliver sighed, leaning back in his chair, smiling contently as he patted his stomach.

“I'm not marrying either of you.” Ethel said, grinning while skipping on her chair, cradling a mug of black coffee in her tiny calloused hands. “I'm an independent woman.” 

Elio and Oliver exchanged a look.

“Now it's your turn, boys.” And Ethel threw them the tea towel she had used as an apron. Elio caught it, raising his eyebrows. “I'm on my break.”

She watched them do the washing-up while she smoked a pipe with puckish delight.

“Where did she come from?” Elio eventually couldn't stop himself from inquiring, later, in bed.

“Well, Ellison recommended her. She worked at one of his dives but he reckoned her too smart for that.”

“Are you sure she's a girl?”

“I didn't check if you mean that, and I don't care.” Oliver lifted the hem of Elio's nightshirt and when he swatted his hand away he pecked him on the cheek.

“Fair enough.” Elio snuggled in close, feeling Oliver hug him from behind.

They never did anything more. This just felt... right. The rest would come, Elio was sure. But all in due time. For now, they kissed good-night and went to sleep.

Elio didn't have nightmares since he shared Oliver's bed.

Ethel celebrated Sabbath with them on Friday night.

“We used to do that until my mother died from consumption two years ago.” She seemed much more solemn than usual, even wiping the corner of her eye with the hem of her pinny.

Elio put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her. “I know how you feel...”

“Fuck off.” She shrugged from his embrace, then quickly turned and punched his chest rather affectionately.

“I knew it. You two.” Oliver smirked as he broke the bread. “A match made in heaven.”

“No need to worry, Mr Molotok.” Ethel winked at him, shook her head and sipped some wine.

“Call me Oliver, for god's sake.”

Elio grinned down onto the table. This almost felt like family... not that he knew much about it. But it was how he had imagined it could be during some cold nights he'd gone to bed hungry and afraid that his father would come home, listening to his mother's labored breathing next to him.

Saturday morning, Oliver woke him with a kiss.

“Happiest birthday, Elio.”

He rubbed his eyes with his fists, blinking blearily over at Oliver.

“Huh?”

“It's July first. You're officially sixteen.”

“Oh.”

Oliver leaned over and smiled down at him, the sunlight catching in his long lashes and golden stubble. Those Greek gods Elio had read about must have looked much like him. His blue eyes shone bright, friendly wrinkles showing at their corners.

Elio became acutely aware that he wanted him. Really wanted him.

“Does that mean that we-”

“No!” Oliver pushed his greedy hands away where they had sneaked towards his crotch. “But it means I'm taking you out in the afternoon.”

Something fluttered inside Elio's chest, his heart beating wildly as Oliver kissed him again, deeper this time, taking his face between his huge hands as he pulled him on top of his strong body.

Their shirts rode up so skin touched skin.

“Oliver, I need...” He was shut up with another kiss.

“If we... just touched ourselves... it won't be... you know... that erring...” Elio panted between kisses turning almost into bites.

“Yeah, let me watch...”

Elio rolled off, pulling his nightshirt over his head. He was so hard it almost hurt. Yet when he kicked the sheets back and saw what Oliver's bunched up shirt revealed, he gasped.

He reached for him almost instinctively.

“Elio, be good!”

Oliver's strict tone stopped him, making his cock twitch. Yet as he pulled his hand back he couldn't avert his eyes. He'd felt Oliver's cock on more than one occasion but seeing it in all its morning glory in bright daylight was something else: it was thick, veined, long, the tip wet and red, poking proudly from a nest of golden curls – he looked good enough to eat.

“I want to drip honey on you an lick you all over.” Elio whispered.

Oliver groaned, a guttural sound Elio swore he could feel in his stomach – or lower – and wrapped a hand around himself. It still only covered about half of Oliver's shaft. 

Elio felt already on the verge of passing out before they had even done anything.

“Touch yourself.” Oliver's voice brought him back to matters at hand.

When he tightened his fist around himself, his flesh hot and slippery in his palm, he prayed to last at least a little while longer.

“God, this was good!

They stroked themselves, staring into each others eyes – for most of the time at least. Though Elio's gaze drifted South more and more frequently, and Oliver's did the same.

It almost felt like a caress.

As Elio imagined Oliver's fingers on his skin, fondling his nipples, his balls, his dick, stroking the sensitive insides of his thighs, the dip of his belly, something uncoiled inside him. Something hot and pulsating shot through his veins, making his fingers tingle and his toes curl. Elio bit his lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he turned his face into the pillow, moaning.

“Elio, look at me.”

When he did, his eyes undecided between watching Oliver's reddened face or his crimson, leaking shaft appearing and disappearing from his fist, it only took two more tugs before he came with a little gasp, spilling all over his fingers.

“Elio-” Oliver hissed and then followed suit, his cock spitting thick ribbons of cum all over the sheets, some even hitting Elio's heaving chest. He quickly scooped it up with his sticky fingers and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while Oliver didn't hide his pleasure watching him.

“Good boy.” He whispered eventually, then offered his own soiled hand for the same treatment. When Elio touched the wrist he felt the pulse hammer beneath Oliver's skin. Now it were his eyes closing as Elio sucked the pads of his fingers into his mouth, twirling his tongue around the rough skin scarred by chemicals he was just learning the names and effects of.

One day his hands would look like Oliver's.

“You taste good.” He said after releasing him. “Sharp. Spicy. Chemical. Your flavor is burning down my throat. You're a part of me now.”

With a low moan Oliver pulled him in for a hug, pressing his body flat against Elio's so that they were touching from head to toe, their damp crotches rubbing against each other. Oliver rested his forehead against Elio's and said in a rough, husky voice: “Never change, my darling boy.”

As they kissed their tastes mingled on their tongues.

“Come on, lets get up, I want to give you your present.” Oliver brushed his nose along Elio's cheekbone.

No one had ever given him a birthday present. Not that he could remember. He felt excitement well up inside him.

But after they got up, Elio first took extra care with shaving Oliver so that his face was as smooth as a baby's bum when they came down into the kitchen (Elio hoped his face didn't look too swollen and scratched from Oliver's stubble. Beard burn was becoming a real problem for them that might one day betray them. Thank god Elio's own facial hair didn't seem too keen to come out and play - yet).

Ethel had baked a cake with raisins and candied fruit in it and as a special treat had gone out early to buy fresh cream.

Elio ate three slices and when he licked the cream off his fingers Oliver's eyes darkened over the rim of his coffee mug.

Elio decided he needed a fourth serving, just to torture Oliver a bit more.

When they were eventually finished, Oliver pushed a small parcel over to him. “I got you a new book. By your favorite author.”

Elio tore the brown wrapping and looked down at the small volume bound in blue cloth. “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he read. “Thank you.”

“I believe you'll enjoy it. It's as wicked as you.”

On Saturdays, the pharmacy closed early, and after he'd locked up behind the last customer Oliver asked Ethel to prepare the bath. She didn't question them sleeping in one room (and apparently one bed) so she didn't question them bathing together either. She just heated the water while Elio dragged in the zinc tub from the yard.

She'd probably seen stranger things at the bars she'd been working.

“I go upstairs and listen to your gramophone.” She declared when the tub had been filled with steaming water.

Ethel had insisted Oliver should buy an apparatus so she had something to do during the evenings when he and Elio 'learned' in Oliver's room. It now sat in the study, and Elio wasn't sure who liked it more, Ethel or Oliver. The amount of shellacs he'd bought in just one week spoke for the latter. 

Thus Elio had also discovered that Oliver had a beautiful, rich singing voice. 

“I got the new Scott Joplin record especially for you. Have fun.” Oliver told her, smiling.

She gave a wave over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs. Ethel wasn't bad at singing either and soon they heard her hum from upstairs.

Elio made sure all the doors were closed and the curtains drawn before he started to undress. Oliver was sitting at the table, watching him.

“Won't you get in?” Elio asked as he stepped into the tub, sighing with relish when his toes dipped into the warm water.

“After you.”

Elio slowly slid down, making a bit of a show of it. “You like to watch me.” He smiled.

“You like being watched.” Oliver unlaced his boots and stretched out his long legs.

“By you.” Elio lay back and closed his eyes as he relaxed. He must have fallen asleep because he only came to when water was sloshing around him. “Finally.” He moved so that he could arrange himself between Oliver's thighs, leaning against his broad chest, the hair there flattened from steam and sweat. It was a bit cramped but Elio didn't mind their close proximity. Like this, he felt safe, all wrapped up in Oliver.

“Wouldn't want the water to go all icy before I could take my turn.” Oliver kissed Elio's temple. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?” Elio's eyes drooped again as he savored Oliver's closeness.

“What we did this morning... I don't want to... mess you up.”

“You won't. I've done other things with men that-”

“Don't. Don't tell me. I couldn't... Its just, I'm not one of them.”

“I know.” Elio turned as much as the small tub allowed, more water spilling over its sides. “I'm damaged goods, Oliver, you know that. I'm sorry if that-”

“Don't say things like that.” Oliver pressed a finger to Elio's lips and Elio tried to playfully bite it. “No need to feel sorry for anything.”

Elio got nearly cross-eyed as he tried to look at Oliver's hand. “I think I have a thing for your fingers.”

Oliver's eyes glazed over again. “What you did over breakfast was evil.”

“You liked it.”

“I did. But we need to be more careful.”

“Make me.”

“I should put you over my knee, boy.” Oliver blushed hard. He certainly hadn't planned saying these words out loud.

“Now you're talking, Mister.” Elio purred.

Ethel's cough from the stairs made them almost jump apart, water sloshing over the rim of the tub as Elio tried to cover himself like a blushing virgin.

“Don't worry, nothing I haven't seen before. I just need the privy.” And she hurried past them and outside into the yard a big grin on her face.

Elio and Oliver just stared at each other in stunned silence before bursting out laughing.

“Lets get out, you're shriveling.” Oliver said, his face a deep red not only from the warmth of the bath and the laughter.

“I thought you'd scrub my back.” Elio pouted, trying his best – and failing – to trap Oliver's strong body with his own.

“Let's get dressed. We have a reservation.” Oliver slung a towel low around his waist before he climbed the stairs, leaving wet footprints behind. 

Elio stepped into one of them, his long, slender foot looking almost comically delicate compared to Oliver's broad imprint.

Elio had wondered where Oliver would take him. It turned out to be a Russian Tea Room near the Bialystoker Synagogue on the Lower East Side.

The room was cozy, decorated with lots of crimson velvet drapes and cushions as well as white doilies on every surface. To Elio, it looked very elegant.

“What's... _Selyodka_?” He asked, pointing at the menu after he'd deciphered the word.

“Pickled herring.” Oliver's eyes were sparkling.

“And... _Golubtsy_?”

“Cooked cabbage with various fillings. You'll like them.”

They started with strong black tea with loads of sugar to which Oliver ordered something called Sushki, a kind of hard, round cookie, a bit like a pretzel, reminding Elio of rusk, that had to be dunked into the tea. With it came small balls of dough tasting of nuts, powdered with icing sugar. Elio loved them.

“Hmmm, very sweet.” He said, licking white dust from his fingertips.

“I think we need something a bit more hearty.” Oliver waved a waiter over and ordered something in rapid Russian. Elio really liked the sound of it. 

“That's Zakuska, sausages and pickles. Eat. You'll need a solid basis.”

“For what?” Elio speared a piece of greasy meat, eyeing it skeptical.

“The Vodka.”

As if on cue, a bottle arrived at their table and Oliver quickly poured two glasses.

“Dolgoy i schastlivoy zhizni!” Oliver raised his glass and knocked back the drink.

“Whatever!” Elio smiled and did the same.

“So, now, let me introduce you to the pinnacle of Russian cuisine: Beef Stroganoff.”

As it got dark outside, Elio became pleasantly tipsy. Oliver fed him small pieces of meat and Elio really liked the slightly sour sauce the beef was swimming in. It dripped down his chin and Oliver wiped it off with his thumb, sucking it clean afterwards.

They laughed a lot over dinner as Oliver told him stories from Russia: How his aunt had eloped with a royal officer who literally had ridden into her parents' house on a white horse and scooped her up into the saddle. How he and his family had gone to the Black Sea during the summers of his boyhood where he'd learned to sail a boat, falling into the water so many times that he'd also learned to swim. He described to Elio the magnificent grand buildings in St Petersburg, the impressive houses of the aristocracy, the summer and the winter palace of the Czar.

“He has two palaces?” Elio wondered. “Who needs two palaces?”

Oliver chuckled, suggesting they should leave.

A bit dizzy from all the food and drink and talk – listening to Oliver speaking Russian to the staff made Elio's skin prickle all over in a very interesting way – Elio stepped outside while Oliver was settling the bill.

“That your new john? Nice.” A familiar voice said suddenly from behind.

When Elio turned, he saw Bella standing there, wearing a white summer frock, her fine blond hair piled up on the back of her head. She was smiling but her cheeks looked hollow.

“He's not my john.” Elio protested, but he grinned. “How are you, dear?”

“Ah, you know, business is slow. But whatever...” Bella made a vague gesture with her right hand. She wasn't wearing gloves and her fingernails looked bitten. “It is what it is.” She smiled a little wearily, staring at a point over Elio's shoulder. Looking for clients. Always on the prowl.

“Funny running into you, I actually wanted to talk to you again. About what you told me the last time we met.” Elio tried to get her attention back.

“What I told you?” Bella sounded confused.

“Can I see you sometime next week? I'll buy you a drink.”

“You know where to find me, Heloise.” His old street name sounded strange in Elio's ears. “Maybe you could also find me someone like your... gentleman friend.” She blew him a kiss and crossed the street, vanishing in the warm summer night.

A moment later, Oliver was by his side. Elio turned to lean against him, only remembering where they were when Oliver took a step back. “Lets get you home. Vodka is something one has to get used to.”

“I have grant plans for tonight!” Elio declared.

“I'm sure of it.” Oliver gently took his arm.

In their bedroom, Oliver was just able to divest Elio of his jacket and boots before he crashed face-first into the mattress, going out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, huge thanks to [Fizzyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fizzyboo/pseuds/Fizzyboo) for helping me with Russian food! It's much appreciated <3! I hope I got it all right? Otherwise please scream at me.  
P.s. Contrary to Elio I love borscht (it can be done vegetarian! Yes, it can!)
> 
> Scott Joplin was a famous ragtime composer and musician at the end of the 19th century:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Joplin
> 
> Okay, also, dear readers, stay safe!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After last week's fluff - here comes grim reality.
> 
> Warning for gore and period-typical homophobia!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a week, right?! I hope you are all safe and healthy! Thank you for 100 subscriptions to this story!!!

The next morning, Ethel served them a late breakfast of black coffee and kippers (her special hang-over cure). Contrary to Elio and Oliver, she was rather chipper.

They found out the reason for it soon enough. While they both sipped her strong hot brew from their mugs, Ethel blurted out: “They found another dead boy in a park. Can't remember which but Lily two houses down at Mrs Arbuthnot heard the fishmonger's boy tell Katy, their cook, that this time not only his private parts were missing but it also looked like as if he'd been skinned.”

In her excitement she spilled coffee on the table, absentmindedly wiping it away with her sleeve.

Elio pushed his plate back, suddenly sick at the sight of the dead fish staring back up at him from its broken eyes.

“Lily said-”

“Ethel! That's probably just gossip. Horror stories.” Oliver tried to silence her.

“-that he was wrapped in some sort of silk cape.”

“Can we not talk about it while we're eating?” Elio croaked.

Oliver gave him an astonished look before digging into his food. “It's usually you who wants to hear all about it. Are you getting squeamish with age, Elio?” He asked, and Ethel giggled.

Elio felt bile rise in his throat. “'scuse me...” And he ran outside into the yard, just making it into the privy before throwing up. It wasn't much as he hadn't eaten for over ten hours, but he still felt dizzy when he stood again.

Back in the kitchen, he drank a whole glass of water while Ethel greedily eyed his plate.

“You're not eating this anymore, are you?”

“Help yourself.”

“I told you, Vodka needs practice.” Oliver seemed determined to ignore Ethel's remarks about another killing. But he sounded too cheerful to convince Elio.

“I think I'm going to lie down again for a bit.” Oliver moved as Elio walked past him but he just shook his head and dragged his worn-out body up the stairs to collapse into bed again.

As he succumbed to a fitful sleep, he dreamed of Bella, her smiling face floating in a white mist until it somehow contorted in horror and pain. Next, she fled, chased by some faceless, invisible specter, her light hair flying in the wind, and no matter how fast Elio ran, he couldn't reach her.

He awoke with a gasp, sweaty and shivering.

It had been his first nightmare in Oliver's bed.

It took a while until he got his breath back and stood up, splashing cold water into his face before going downstairs. To his surprise it was already afternoon.

“I think I'm going out. Alone. I need some air.” He told Oliver, who was going through the pharmacy's accounts, his big cash ledger in front of him on the kitchen table. Ethel was sitting on the bench, knitting what looked like socks, her needles clattering.

“What're you up to?” Oliver looked at him, frowning a little as he put his pencil down.

“Just meeting some friends. Belated birthday celebration, buying them a drink. Now that I'm well off I can do that, right?”

“Of course.” Oliver sounded not very pleased but didn't object.

Ethel was busy with her wool, a disapproving frown on her face.

Elio rolled his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” Both replied, concentrating on their respective task. 

Yet Elio felt two pair of eyes on the back of his head as he took his jacket from the hook on the door.

“Fine. See you.”

Oliver's only reply was: “Don't be late.”

Ethel hummed a song, not paying him the slightest attention but her needles had stopped knitting.

The bright sun outside hurt his eyes. But Elio walked the twenty blocks or so down to the Bowery, and after about ten minutes he actually felt a little less shaky, his stride becoming more reassured. He had to check on a few bars before he finally found Bella sitting at a corner table in an especially seedy one. She wasn't made up, her loose hair slightly greasy and unkempt, hiding her face as she nursed the last of a beer long gone stale.

“I'll buy you a fresh one.” Elio said, touching her shoulder. She jumped a little and looked up at him with eyes huge from hunger.

“And maybe a bowl of stew?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

A few minutes later, Elio returned to the table with two steins and the steaming soup on a tray (more broth and potatoes than meat but that's how they served it here). Bella nonetheless dug in as if starving; which she probably was.

“Trade is slow, due to those killings.” She explained between spoonfuls. “I've heard they found another one. The police is closing down some bars and all the boys are getting hysterical.”

“Yes, I heard about that. Are you not afraid?”

Bella didn't look up from her bowl. “Me? I can't afford to be afraid.”

Elio swallowed. “It's just, I think there are now at least ten dead boys, and all have been working the streets as far as I know.”

Bella sighed. “Yeah, quite a few have gone missing...” She trailed off.

Elio took a sip of his beer. “That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I can't get that story you told me out of my head, about the guy who picked you up at the bath.”

Bella just shrugged. “What of it?”

“Those dead boys... the murderer puts things up their behinds. Bottles but also... brushes, broom handles, candle sticks... glass has been found inside them, wooden splinters...”

Bella shuddered. “God, that's awful.”

“So, can you really not remember where that man took you that night? Was it up 5th Avenue?”

“What are you now, a sleuth?” Bella grinned but it didn't wipe the jaded look off her face. As Elio's eyes had gotten used to the gloomy light, he could see that the front of her white dress was stained with what looked like blood. There were bruises on both of her bare forearms and one of her cheeks looked swollen.

Elio didn't ask.

“It's just... I'm curious. Aren't you?” He said.

“I'm just hungry. And tired.” Bella rested her elbows on the table. The bowl was empty by now.

Elio reached into his pockets, passing her a Dollar and one of Oliver's small white business cards he kept on the pharmacy's counter. “This is were I'm living now. Near Gramercy Park. If you remember anything, let me know. Please. It's important.”

Bella stared at the card. “Molotok's Drugstore & Dispensary. So he has his own business, your john. Is there a reward in it for me?” She asked, stuffing both the card and the money into her boot beneath the table.

“It might be.”

She cocked her head to one side, her gaze narrowing. “What if I remember something, say, a streetsign? A landmark? If I could lead you to the murderer? How would you take him down, Heloise? You're just a little twerp.” Yet her smile took the sting from the slur.

“It's not just me. Ellison wants it to stop too.”

“You work for Ellison now.” Bella leaned forward. “He told us to be careful. But what can you do?” She drank the last of her beer. “I've to get ready for work. It's been good seeing you. And thank you.” She got up and made for the exit, limping slightly.

“Will you be in touch?” 

“Maybe.” She waved over her shoulder, tossing her head back before opening the door to the street. Her fair hair gleamed like mercury in the sudden bright sunlight, cascading over her shoulders. What a beautiful girl this boy was, Elio thought.

He finished his own drink, then ordered another. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to get drunk. And to forget for a while.

When Elio climbed into bed next to Oliver a few hours later, he felt such gratefulness for his presence that he choked on a lump in his throat and had to cough, waking Oliver.

“You smell like a very cheap boozer.” Oliver grumbled. “Where've you been?”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Oliver brought one arm around him, pulled him close, sighed, and drifted off again.

But Elio lay awake long into the night, listening to Oliver's breathing, silently thanking his god for having led him here. As much fun as returning to his old hood had been – he had even met a few of the boys – here was the place where he felt safe. Where he belonged now.

He'd been so incredibly lucky.

He also prayed for Bella, hoping she'd find something like this as well. Someone like Oliver, who would take care of her. Or at least a john who'd tread her gentle tonight.

The next morning, Ethel barged into their bedroom, red in the face, apron and bonnet askew.

“Police.” She hissed. “Downstairs. They want to talk to you, Mr... Oliver.” She closed the door behind herself, leaning against it like a small human barricade, her voice low. “Elio needs to get his stuff up to the chamber. Now. I fear they might search the house.”

“What?” Elio groaned, startled and confused, but managed to sit up. Next to him, Oliver seemed frozen, staring at Ethel as if he couldn't comprehend her words. Outside it looked shortly past dawn, with the sun just rising.

Elio sprang into action, already scrambling out of bed, opening the wardrobe to tear his shirts, jacket and trousers from the hangers.

“I'll help you as soon as I can.” Ethel whispered. “Oliver, the detectives seemed rather pressed.”

“But why...”

Elio, his arm full of clothes, turned to Oliver still in bed, his hair tousled, eyes bleary, his voice full of anxiety. With his free hand he pulled the sheets back.

“Just go down and find out.” He quickly kissed Oliver on the cheek, brushed a hand though his blond hair, then left to tiptoe upstairs while Ethel ran back into the pharmacy to tell the police that Mr Molotok would be with them soon.

What could the fuzz want? Was this because of those operations Oliver performed? Or had they been found out? But how? Ethel would never grass on them...

Up in the chamber, Elio stuffed his clothes into the chest of drawers next to Ethel's few garments, then dressed in a hurry, put on a brave face and went downstairs.

He found Oliver and two plain-cloth policemen in the shop, the counter separating them like a green line. So Oliver had not invited the officers into the privacy of their kitchen. Ethel was leaning against the wall, half hidden in the shadows, biting her fingernails as Elio went past her.

“-the dead boy had this literally nailed to his forehead. Like, with a nail.” One of the policemen was saying.

Elio moved over to the group as if sleepwalking, his eyes fixed on a piece of cardboard covered with dark stains one of the officers held up between his fingers. He was tall and thin, his blond hair already receding despite being not much older than Oliver, wearing a cheap suit and even cheaper shoes.

Elio instantly disliked him

“You recognize this?” The question hung in the room like an accusation.

“It's one of my business cards.” Oliver looked pale and sullen, his shirt not properly tucked into his trousers, with no collar on and more than a five o'clock shadow of stubble growing on his jaw. Elio wanted to take his hand, needed someone to hold him right now, but knew that such a move would be way too dangerous. Too revealing.

“Who's that?” The second officer, a sturdy man with bushy black whiskers, asked, pointing at Elio.

“That's my apprentice, Elio Perlman.” Oliver introduced him stiffly.

“What's going on?” Elio felt queasy. Because he recognized that card. He'd just handed one very like it to Bella yesterday... “What happened?” His voice sounded too high in his ears, almost shrill.

Oliver turned towards him and frowned, a myriad of expressions passing over his face. “A dead boy you said?” Elio felt close to fainting as he took one step closer.

“Found half an hour ago, in Gramercy Park, just up your street.” The tall, blond policeman said.

“Oh my god.” Elio grabbed the counter. “Is that... blood on the card.”

“I'm afraid it is, lad.” Yet the two men looked at Elio without sympathy.

Elio suddenly couldn't breathe.

“Ethel, fetch Master Elio a glass of water.” Oliver's voice was sharp, loud. “Ethel!”

“Yes, Mr Molotok.” Elio heard Ethel run back into the kitchen.

“So, you admit this is your card, Mr Molotok.” 

“Well, it has my name on it. I hand them out to my customers. Here, I have a stash of them on the counter. It's for advertising. With the pharmacy's opening hours and address.”

“Is one of your customers a young... boy... slender, blue eyes, long blond hair?”

“No.” Oliver shook his head. Thank god that moment Ethel returned with the water, so Elio could drink and swallow his impulse to scream with it.

The tall, blond policeman kept staring at Oliver while the other let his eyes wander all over the pharmacy. “You're a medical man?”

“Pharmacologist, but yes, I do have some medical knowledge. Comes with the trade.” Oliver stood a little straighter.

“Since when have you been operating here?”

“Not long, since last autumn. That's why I had the cards printed, to get word out.”

“Where are you from, initially?” The questions sounded increasingly hostile.

“Initially, from St Petersburg.” When both detectives frowned at him, Oliver added. “Russia.”

“You mind if we take a look around.” It wasn't really a question.

“Why?” Oliver asked.

Elio could have kicked him. Don't make a fuss when the police calls. Let them do what they want, have it over with, don't provoke them. Don't.Ask.Questions!

“Just to make sure everything is in order.” The tall policeman's voice was icy.

As neither Elio nor Oliver moved, Ethel was quick to catch on. She opened the door towards the kitchen wide. “This way, please, sirs. Would you like some coffee? Or something stronger?”

The sturdy officer walked through while the other stayed with Oliver in the pharmacy. “Let me see your books.”

Oliver exhaled, his shoulders dropping in defeat. “Of course. You'll find everything in perfect order.”

“Then you've got nothing to worry about.”

Elio decided to follow the other officer and Ethel into the kitchen. He didn't like her being alone with him. Ethel made herself busy at the stove while the policeman randomly opened cupboards until he found their silver Sabbath chalice and candle sticks.

“Kikes!” He spat out. Both Elio and Ethel froze but didn't say a word. “Okay, lets see what else we find.” The officer walked up the stairs, Elio on his heels.

He just peered into their bedroom before searching Oliver's study, pulling various books from the shelves. When he took down the huge volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, he whistled as he reached behind them. “Oscar Wilde, that sick fellow. And what's this, _'Psychopathia Sexualis'_? A dirty book, I presume.” He started to leaf through it, raising his eyebrows as he came to the pictures.

Fuck, why hadn't Oliver hidden his stuff better?

“Oliver... Mr Molotok needs this for his studies.” Elio hurried to explain.

“I bet he does.” The policeman's voice was full of disgust.

He carried the books under his arm as he climbed the second stairs up to the chamber.

“Who sleeps here?”

“Me. And Ethel.” The officer arched an eyebrow.

“It's warmer that way.” Elio said as the man opened one of the drawers, poking through their mingled clothes.

After he had a final look around they both went back downstairs.

“I found these.” The policeman put the books onto the counter in the pharmacy. “And they're kikes.”

“All of you?” The blond officer bent over one of Oliver's large ledgers stood up and stared at the three of them with open hostility.

They all nodded while Ethel was handing out coffee. She'd taken the good cups. Neither officer touched his.

“What's through there?” The tall one asked, pointing towards the door to the small laboratory.

“That's where I prepare the medicine.”

The room was too narrow for all of them to fit in. 

“Could you please...be careful?” Oliver's voice trembled with badly suppressed rage as he watched the two detectives touch his beakers and jars, heedlessly disturbing the neat rows of equipment and supplies.

“Oh, are we complaining about police work, Mr Molotok?” The sturdy officer intentionally dropped a glass tube. It splintered on the floor, shards flying everywhere.

“Please, this could be dangerous.” The muscle had started twitching in Oliver's face.

“I get a broom.” Ethel said from behind them, running back into the kitchen.

“What's this?” The blond detective was holding up a slightly bowed metal rod with a scoop at one end – the curette.

Oliver froze, all color leaving his face.

“It's for measuring... poisons. Don't touch it.” Elio said the first thing that came into his head.

“Really?” The officer sounded unconvinced but dropped it.

“Okay, something smells fishy here.” The detectives shared a look. “You two will accompany us to the station, take a look at the dead boy. Maybe that'll jog your memory. The girl stays put.”

"You can't do that! You can't..." Oliver protested.

"We can do anything we want, Mr Molotok. We're the police."

Elio was grateful when Oliver's mouth snapped shut. God, if the police found out what he'd been up to, helping those women out of the family way! They'd both find themselves behind bars faster than they'd recite the kaddish! Elio wasn't too keen on spending a few years in Sing Sing. He knew what happened to boys like him in there.

So better yield and obey. The more acquiescent they acted, the sooner this could be over.

Ethel, clinging to the broom as if it was a crutch, waved after them from the shop door as Elio and Oliver were led towards a waiting carriage. Some neighbors had gathered in the street, attracted by the hubbub despite the early hour, staring, whispering, pointing fingers at them. The news had apparently traveled fast. Elio recognized familiar faces of customers, Mary among them. She turned away when he raised his hand in greeting while another maid standing next to her spat on the ground.

They were silent in the carriage; Elio didn't even dare so much as glance at Oliver, who sat up very straight, eyes at the front, not deigning to look at the uniformed policeman keeping watch on them.

The police precinct wasn't far away. Upon arrival, they were both let through a bustling foyer and into a large room. There, on a table, lay... something, covered with an old, gray blanket, surrounded by at least five men, one of them McDougal, the police surgeon. He looked up but avoided eye-contact.

The other men stood aside when their little group came closer.

“Chief Inspector Miller? This is Oliver Molotok, who's card was nailed to the boy's forehead.” The blond policeman pointed at Oliver.

A broad man about fifty with a huge red mustache came towards them, wearing plain clothes as well. He let his eyes wander first over Oliver, then over Elio.

“And that is?” He pointed at Elio.

“Elio Perlman, Mr Molotok's... apprentice.” The way the officer said it insinuated something else entirely. Elio felt himself blush.

“And they deny knowing the victim?”

“They do indeed.” The policeman sounded very smug.

“I'm sorry, I didn't deny-” Oliver's voice was firm.

“Don't.” Elio hissed under his breath.

“You should listen to your young... friend, Mr Molotok.” Miller had to look up at Oliver to address him and didn't seem to like it. “Arguing with the police never bodes well in this city.” He stroked his mustache, an unpleasant grin on his face. “Let's take a look at the corpse, shall we?”

Someone pulled the blanket back and Elio clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms in an attempt not to throw up.

There lay Bella – or what was left of her.

Her hands were missing. That was the first thing Elio noticed. Her frail, naked body had bruises all over. Strands of her long, lovely blond hair were missing as if someone had ripped them out, leaving bloody bold patches behind on her scalp. Her nose had been cut off, too, as had her genitals as Elio discovered when he dared to look between her legs. There was a small hole in her forehead, and carved into her narrow chest were letters: S N I T C H.

Long slashes to her belly resembled a primitive Star of David.

There was no blood on her. Because he'd bathed her...

Elio stumbled backwards. “Oh my...” Someone grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Hey, boy.”

Elio tried to breathe through his mouth as not to smell the stench of death.

Oliver was looking down at the mutilated body, his face tense. “I don't think I've ever seen... this child. But it's hard to tell.” Elio admired his guts for examining Bella's sorry remains so closely.

“He went around dressed as a girl. His clothes were bundled up next to him.” Miller pointed at the light dress hanging over a chair. “He was a boy whore.”

Elio wanted to punch the man.

“Was he wearing anything when found?” Oliver asked, sounding way to curious for his own good. 

_'Oh, shut up, you fool!'_

“He had a silk scarf stuffed into his mouth. Maybe as a gag. McDougal here believes that at least some of the injuries were inflicted before death. Like a form of torture or maybe an ancient ritual.” Miller's eyes bore into Oliver's.

“Is that one of the perversions you're interested in, Molotok? Torturing young boys?” The policeman who'd found the books held up _'Psychopathia Sexualis'_.

“Crossdressing and hermaphrodism are quite interesting – from a scientific point of view. As is sadism.” Oliver looked back at the sturdy officer, his gaze as cold as his voice.

_'For fuck's sake...'_

“Is that so? You're a clever one, aren't you, Molotok? Then you won't mind being our guest, enlightening us further, will you? Spencer, take them to one of the cells.” Miller commanded.

“What?” Oliver sounded more surprised than angry. Yet Elio's felt sick when a young constable took his arm to drag him away.

“You're helping us with our inquiries. Get them downstairs, Constable. Search them. Thoroughly.” Miller's smile gave Elio chills.

Rightly so. The search turned out to be utterly humiliating. They were both ordered to undress, even had to remove their drawers. While Constable Spencer went through their pockets the tall, blond officer told them to step up to a desk and bend over, pulling their ass cheeks apart.

Elio had to go first.

Oliver made a sound of protest that Elio silenced by saying: “It's okay. They're just doing their job.” The policeman's hands were clammy and rough. When he heard him spit out, Elio closed his eyes and started to count backwards from 100. 

At 68 it was over.

But of course, when it was Oliver's turn, he refused. What good did he expect would that do? All it gave him was a bump on his forehead and a bloody nose as Spencer was ordered to make use of his truncheon.

After the third blow, Oliver complied, blood dripping from his face onto the desk.

Elio's stared at a creak in the wall, hoping for this to be over soon. But didn't he deserve every punishment dished out here for having gotten Bella involved in all of this?

And now she lay upstairs on a table, strange men poking her naked body even in death. Not even now was she granted a shred of dignity.

He realized he didn't even knew her... his... real name. Yet he'd condemned her to die.

The card nailed to Bella's forehead, the word snitch, the Star of David – it were all messages aimed at him. This was all his fault.

God, what had Bella done? What had he put her up to? Oh, that stupid, stupid hoe... Elio swallowed his tears as he was handed his clothes back before they were led to a cell.

Sitting on a hard bench, Oliver pressed his handkerchief against his still bleeding nose. “I hope it's not broken.” He muttered.

“Don't speak. They're listening.” Elio mouthed, tilting his head towards the door.

So they sat in silence for a long while. Elio couldn't get the image of Bella's mutilated body out of his mind. The stumps of her arms... her destroyed face... the open wound between her legs...

She'd been alive when this had been done to her. 

His mouth was too dry, his throat too tight. He was suffocating her. He needed air... Yet he dared not to move.

Next to him, Oliver was staring at the ceiling, his pulse visibly hammering in his temple.

He wanted to lean against him, wanted to cling to him, to be held.

Wanted to scream.

Wanted Oliver to tell him that everything would be alright. That he was safe.

But all he got was silence.

Eventually, the heavy metal door of their cell opened and Miller walked inside, constable Spencer behind him.

“So, now that you had time to think, would you like to tell me something?”

Oliver didn't move. Elio broke out into a cold sweat, his shirt sticking to his back.

“Okay, let me put it like this.” Miller continued as they both stayed quiet. “You, Molotok, live with this rather fay young boy under one roof, own books by a convicted sodomite, like to read about... sexual perversions, have medical knowledge, own some curious instruments, and are Jewish – while our victim above was tortured and violated and displays the Jewish star. What am I to make of this?”

“The others didn't.” Oliver's voice was crisp when he finally spoke.

“The others? What others? So you know about the other dead boys as well?”

_'Fuck, Oliver! Just shut up!'_

“Everyone does. It's all over the papers.” Elio intervened, his voice shaky.

“So you like to read about these murders as well, boy? Does that excite you?” Now Miller turned towards him as Spencer had once again his truncheon in his hand, weighing it in his right palm. Elio couldn't take his eyes off it. “What a nice couple you two are. I think you'd look rather pretty in a dress yourself. What do you say, Constable Spencer?”

“I ain't no faggot, Chief.” Spencer answered, eyes narrowing.

“Of course not. But look at his mouth, his face, the way he moves. Don't you think he's a bit effeminate?”

Elio felt himself blush.

“A bit what?” Spencer asked, grabbing his truncheon harder.

“Never mind. Have you ever been to a place called Paresis Hall, boy?”

“Don't answer that.” An educated voice came from behind the policemen, who turned around, visibly surprised by the intruder.

“And you are?” Miller barked.

“Arthur Rutherford. I'm Mr Molotok's lawyer.” There stood a lean, bald man, clean-shaven, even taller than Oliver, dressed in an expensive looking suit and coat.

“Since when does Mr Molotok need a lawyer?” Miller asked slyly.

“Since now.” Towards Oliver, Rutherford said. “Mr Ellison sends me to make sure you're treated with all due respect. Doesn't look like it, though. Too bad.” He took in Oliver's swollen face, then turned back to the chief inspector. “Was that really necessary?”

“Ellison sent you?” Miller sounded suddenly a little less confident.

“That's correct. He and Mr Molotok are close... associates.” The lawyer's smile was as thin as his body and outright threatening.

“Well, in that case... you're free to go, gentlemen.” Miller stepped aside.

Rutherford coughed.

“And please, excuse my overzealous officers. We're all a bit on edge here.” The two policemen sharply turned and walked away, not once looking back.

Five minutes later, all three of them were bundled up in a carriage back to Irving Place. Oliver was staring out the window while the lawyer was telling them that Ethel had alerted Ellison. Oliver only nodded absentmindedly.

“So, what exactly happened?”

“Another killing. And I knew her.” Elio blurted out as it was finally safe to say it. “Her name was Bella.”

“Blond, blue eyes, delicate features?” The lawyer asked.

Elio nodded.

“He worked at Paresis Hall sometimes... such a waste.”

“_She_. Her name was Bella. Remember that! Bella.” Elio started to cry, heavy sobs shaking his body. Oliver put an arm around his shoulders.

No one said a word for the rest of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the origin of the slur 'kike':  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kike


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all still safe and healthy!

When they arrived back at the pharmacy around midday, the next shock was waiting for them. Someone had smeared 'Jews will burn' in white paint all over the front windows of the shop. Oliver glanced at it, unlocking the door, to find Ethel just carrying a bucket full of soapy water from the kitchen.

“I was about to clean that up.” She huffed, nodding towards the revilement.

“Don't bother, girl.” Oliver strode right past her and climbed the stairs. Elio and Rutherford followed.

But instead of entering his study so they could have a proper conversation, Oliver was walking right into his bedroom, taking a suitcase down from the wardrobe and started to throw random clothes into it.

“What are you doing?” Elio almost shouted, trying to grab Oliver's arm to stop him.

“I'm packing. You should do the same.” Oliver shrugged Elio off and pulled a second suitcase down, forcefully putting it onto the floor with a loud bang.

“Don't do this.” The lawyer's voice sounded weary but calm.

Oliver kicked the second suitcase over and stepped right up to Rutherford. “Today, I was arrested, I was called a kike, I was forced to undress, I was humiliated, I was beaten. By your police force, founded once to protect the innocent.” His face was white with wrath.

“Running away won't make things any better.” The lawyer pointed out, looking unimpressed by Oliver's outburst.

“Oh, but it will. We'll leave this country and go somewhere else, somewhere no one cares who we are or what we do.” Oliver's voice had dropped to an angry whisper.

“And where do you think you'll find this imaginary Arcadia, a place free from harassment and prejudice? Tell me, I'd like to join you there.” Rutherford asked gently.

Oliver turned away, sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands. He stayed like this for at least two minutes until he said in a low voice: “I've seen things like this happen too often. Back in Russia... why do you think my parents sent me here? I will not be subjected to this form of persecution!” He suddenly shouted, raking his hands through his hair. “I don't allow for my household to be treated like this, as if we are not worthy of respect and decency!”

“Can you give us a moment?” Elio turned towards the lawyer. “I'm sure Ethel will offer you some refreshment.”

Rutherford sighed and shook his head but left them.

“Oliver.” Elio sat down next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. “If we run now we'll look even more suspicious. It would be so easy to pin all the murders on us.”

Oliver exhaled, his whole body shaking. “Remember when I talked about showing you Rome? Now would be a good time to travel there.” But Oliver sounded flat, defeated.

“No, it wouldn't.” Elio shook his head. “We probably won't even make it to the harbor before getting arrested.”

Oliver was silent again for a long time until he put his right arm around Elio's waist. “Why did she have my card?” He asked eventually.

Elio took Oliver's left hand in his and squeezed it. “Because... I gave it to her. I met her.” Oliver started to shake his head. “She'd been with the killer. I was sure she knew more than she let on. I gave her your card so she could contact me if she remembered something or was ready to share her information. And I was right. Bella knew the murderer. She must have. Because she's dead now.” Tears ran down his cheeks as he continued. “She must have... pursued him on her own. She was broke, hungry, desperate. Maybe she tried to blackmail him... or she tried to find out more before coming to us, but wasn't careful enough. Such a stupid, stupid girl.” Elio balled his free hand into a fist and brought it down onto his thigh, hard.

Oliver pulled him into a hug and held him. “You're aware that the murderer now knows where we live, right? He tortured the poor kid, and he definitely saw the card. Another reason to leave.” He pressed a kiss to Elio's hair.

Elio pushed him back. “On the contrary. It's a reason to stay. You saw the message he sent me. 'SNITCH'. The Magen David. I'm sure he'll come for me. That's our chance.”

Oliver let go of him. “Are you mad?” He almost yelled, his face even paler and angrier than before.

“No, Oliver. He thinks he holds all the cards but now we have the chance to set a trap and catch him. And we won't blow it.” 'Because otherwise I'll lie on a gurney like Bella very soon. And I have no intention to end like this. Not when I can have a future with you, Oliver.'

“That is crazy.” Oliver said again, staring at Elio, but his words lacked conviction.

“Maybe. But what else can we do? He won't just stop killing boys. If we run we'll get arrested. The police was already setting us up as the murderers, with your books and medical knowledge as proof. Maybe they'd make up some gory Jewish ritual to undermine their theory. And the public will love that. They think the worst of us, anyway. And if they can't pin the killings on us, they get us for the abortions. Or buggery. That's up to twenty years in a penitentiary. With hard labor. How long do you think we'll last? Actually, I'd prefer being electrocuted to that.”

“Don't say things like this.” Oliver whispered.

“Sorry. But you know I'm right. Our only chance is to apprehend the real murderer, hand him over, and end this.” Elio sounded more assured than he actually felt.

“And you'll play the bait?”

Elio shrugged. “He tried two times and failed. You know he wants me. That's why he placed Bella almost on our doorstep.”

Oliver looked pensive. Elio felt he was starting to convince him.

“Two weeks, okay? Give it two weeks. During that time, you can set up clandestine travel plans. But leaving here needs preparation. What about Ethel, for example? The pharmacy? Our chances to escape will be better if we wait a little and don't hasten things. This will give the killer a window to strike. If he doesn't act during this time, I'll go with you to Europe, I promise.” Elio waited anxiously for Oliver's reaction. Eventually, he nodded.

Rutherford seemed relieved when they finally emerged from the bedroom, calmer now, and met him in the kitchen where he was nursing a coffee and a brandy.

“We talked it through. No need to rush.” Oliver poured himself a glass as well.

“I understand your anger, Mr Molotok.” The lawyer looked earnest, almost grim. “Let me assure you, Mr Ellison will do anything to help. He's deeply appalled that the police came after you like this. He regards you as a friend.”

A shadow passed over Oliver's face. “Please, tell him I'm grateful for his help and support.”

“But he also relies on you to fulfill the task you promised him to execute. This has to end. No more boys should fear for their lives and die. It's bad for business.”

“We have a plan. Tell Mr Ellison that we're sure we can catch this monster.” Elio held the lawyer's gaze.

“A plan?” The lawyer raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued.

“Elio thinks he can lure the murderer from hiding. That he will come here.” Elio heard still a trace of unease in Oliver's words.

“That can be incredibly dangerous.”

“As is walking the streets every night for us boys.” Elio forced his voice to come out steady and assured.

“Very well.” Rutherford nodded and got up. As he shook their hands, he once again reassured them of Ellison's patronage. “Don't hesitate to ask should you need anything. And alert me should the police come by again. Though I doubt it. They don't want to cross Mr Ellison.”

He left with a small smirk on his face.

In the afternoon, Elio helped Ethel clean the shop front while Oliver had a second brandy in his study, rearranging his books before meticulously tidying his laboratory.

In the evening, when they all had had some time to think and calm down, they started to make plans.

“Okay, do we really believe he'll come here to kill Elio? Or will the murderer try to get him out of the house?” Ethel asked after they'd told her what had happened to Bella.

“No idea. We have to be prepared for every scenario.” Oliver growled.

“I won't go out alone again.” Elio promised.

“You better not!” 

“We need weapons.” Ethel stated matter-of-factly.

“Weapons?” Both Elio and Oliver asked in unison, shocked by her ruthless determination.

“Sure. To defend ourselves.”

“But... What kind of weapons?” Oliver sounded skeptical.

“Clubs. Knives. Brass knuckles. Nothing too fancy.” Ethel's small face was serious.

“And where do we get those?” Oliver asked, still looking unconvinced.

“Don't worry. I know people.” Ethel deftly stuffed her pipe and lit it with a spill for the stove. Soon, the sharp smell of her cheap tobacco filled the kitchen.

“So, when I won't go anywhere alone he'll have to come here. We'll be prepared for him but we need an alarm system.” Elio pointed out, biting his knuckles.

“Trip wire.”

“Bottles on the floor.”

“Nails strewn on the stairs.”

“You two are rather creative.” Elio grinned.

They started that same evening, making sure all windows and doors were bolted and locked. Then they put trip wires over the thresholds, connected to some empty cans. If the wire was disturbed, the cans would rattle, waking them. They also set bottles on the floor by the back door and the pharmacy's entrance as a second line of defense.

On the stairs, they scattered nails they'd sweep up in the morning. Before they all went to bed, exhausted from the day, they each grabbed a large kitchen knife.

Elio slid into Oliver's bed, put the knife beneath the pillow, but couldn't sleep.

“Hey, relax.” Oliver whispered, stroking his back.

“I can't. The things he did to Bella...”

“Don't. It's not your fault-”

“If I hadn't talked to her-”

“You don't know that, Elio. Maybe the murderer would have gone after her anyway, as a potential witness. If Bella put two and two together and sought him out she knew he was dangerous Yet she decided to take the risk. Her decisions are not your responsibility. It's the murderer's fault what happened, nor yours.”

Elio wanted to believe that. But he had to try really hard.

He must have fallen asleep eventually because he dreamed of Bella, smiling at him, offering him a cigarette. _'It's okay, Elio.' _She said before her body exploded into a cloud of a thousand bright lights. Elio experienced the sensation of falling, falling, until he found himself in a dark room with a bathtub, illuminated by a single flickering candle. In the tub was... Bella, covered with milky water, her blond hair splayed around her, dead eyes wide open, bloody tears streaming down her cheeks.

_'Stop him. Please... stop him hurting me.'_

Elio woke with a choked cry.

“What?” Oliver was wide awake beside him, his knife gleaming in the moonlight.

“Just hold me.” Elio buried his wet face in his neck, inhaling his sweaty, human, alive scent, feeling the warmth of his skin.

And Oliver did, embraced and stroked him until he went back asleep.

Nothing happened that night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that.

On the Monday, business was slow at the pharmacy, but over the week it returned to old strength as more and more regulars and neighbors came in to do their shopping. No one mentioned the incident from the weekend but everyone seemed anxious to be extra friendly and bough more than they usually did.

It felt odd. As if their guilty conscience forced their customers to make amends.

Ethel declared she had to run some errands on Tuesday, returning in the afternoon with a bag full of goodies: knuckledusters, hardwood clubs, even a bowie knife.

“I thought we said nothing too fancy.” Oliver seemed startled, holding the knife up to his eyes where the sharp blade reflected the sunlight.

“It was a bargain. Go it from an old friend.” Ethel defended her purchase, putting the knuckleduster over her small fingers. It looked dangerous.

Elio weighed a club in his hands. He couldn't wait to use this weapon on the bastard. He wanted to hurt him. Badly.

Their nights were short. Setting up the alarm system every evening took time, adding to the already tense atmosphere in the house.

With every uneventful day that passed Elio more and more felt as if living under a bell jar, imprisoned in the house. Outside, the sun shone, but Oliver wouldn't even allow him into the yard alone.

“Can I at least go to the privy on my own?” Elio exploded on Thursday.

“Only if I keep watch in front of the door!”

Elio feared the waiting might drive them all crazy.

Friday evening, Oliver popped out quickly to buy matzo for the Sabbath after they closed the pharmacy. Ethel was upstairs, listening to the gramophone while Elio set the table when there was a knock on the front door.

Elio was aware that he was alone downstairs as he peered through the shop window. In the light summer evening outside he glimpsed a girl he'd never seen before, looking left and right over her shoulder as she waited for the door to open. Her dress was simple, her boots old and battered, her bonnet sat a little askew. She appeared to be nervous, even frightened but absolutely harmless. Maybe she was in trouble? Elio dared to open the door just an inch, putting the chain on.

“Yes? We're closed for today.”

“Are you... Heloise?” The girl asked. Elio froze hearing his old street name. When he looked more closely, it became clear that the 'girl' was in fact a boy in a dress. Young. His voice hadn't even broken yet.

“I used to be.”

The boy swallowed and fumbled in a pocket of his skirt. “I have a letter for you.” He seemed now outright terrified as he dug an envelope from the folds of his dress, handing it to Elio before whispering “sorry” and running away, down the street, out of sight.

Elio stared at the letter in his hand. The handwriting on it was precise, the black ink not smudged.

Who the hell would write to him?

His hands started to shake as he carried the letter into the kitchen, dropping the envelop on the table as if it could bite him.

He waited for Oliver's return to open it. In it was just a single sheet of thick paper.

_'I see you, whore. And I will come for you. The other whore went through hell, calling your name. You will follow. “I baptize you with water for repentance, but he who is coming after me is mightier than I.… He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire”.'_ Elio read, staring up at Oliver, tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck, how does this fiend dare to... poor Bella.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his trembling hand.

“What is this? The bible?” Ethel asked

“I think so.” Oliver frowned. “Is there nothing else?”

“Wait.” Elio took the envelop and peered inside. “There is something...Oh my god!” As he dropped the envelop a lock of blond hair fell out, a piece of scalp still attached to it.

Elio was glad he made it over to the sink before throwing up.

Ethel massaged his back, murmuring soothing words to him while Oliver burned both the letter and the hair in the yard.

“He's playing with you. He wants to frighten you, unsettle you.” He said when back inside.

“He's doing a pretty good job with that.” Elio spat back. He was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling queasy, while Ethel poured a shot of brandy into a mug of strong black tea, pushing it into his hands.

“He never wrote to any of his victims before as far as we know.” Oliver sounded excited.

“Wouldn't have done any good, probably, as most couldn't read.” Elio interjected grimly before taking a sip of the tea, starting to cough as it was almost more brandy than anything else.

“But don't you see? Your tactic works. We're forcing him to act, to break his pattern. He's out of his depth. That means it's likely he's going to make a mistake.” Oliver looked way too euphoric for Elio's liking.

“He tore that hair from Bella's head, Oliver, while she was still alive. He tortured her. I don't care about his fucking patterns!” The alcohol was making Elio bold.

Oliver sat down next to him and hugged him. “I'm sorry. I forgot... please, I'm sorry.”

“Let's just get this fucker.” Elio said against Oliver's broad chest. “Before I go mad.”

Oliver stood up again, straightening to his full height. “We will. Ethel, you stay here with Elio. Lock all the doors and pull the curtains. Stay in the kitchen, together, as it's the safest room in the house. Don't open the door to no one. I'll take a key with me to let myself in later.”

“Where're you going?” Both Ethel and Elio asked, suddenly alarmed.

“I have to see someone. I won't be long, I promise.”

“But the Sabbath-” Ethel pointed at the silver chalice.

“Later.”

Elio just nodded, a lump in his throat.

“Okay. We can play cards. Come on, Elio, lets lock up after Oliver, and then we have the house to ourselves.” Yet Ethel's grin didn't reach her eyes. Even she was afraid and visibly shaken.

Ethel carried down the gramophone and put on her favorite record, and then they drank more tea in the kitchen and played Canasta for the next hour. When they heard the shop door open they exchanged a look and got up. Elio reached for the club lying next to the pile of cards while Ethel grabbed the carving knife.

Oliver raised his hands when he entered the kitchen.

“I surrender.”

No one laughed.

“Where were you? What was this about?”

Oliver looked serious as he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

Ethel's and Elio's eyes went wide when they saw what Oliver placed in the middle of the table: A small revolver, the greasy black metal glinting dangerously in the light of the oil lamp.

“Is it loaded?” Elio asked. He'd seen guns a few times but never handled one.

“Yes. I thought we should step up our security.” Oliver's voice was hard. “I used to shoot. Back home. Rifles, not hand guns, but I don't think there's much difference.”

Ethel was frowning, looking apprehensive. “I don't like having a loaded gun in the house.”

“Me neither. But I have to protect us.” .

They all went to bed soon after, exhausted. Oliver put the gun on the bedside table. Elio couldn't take his eyes off it.

“Would you really shoot someone?” He asked eventually.

Oliver got into bed beside him. “To keep you safe? Yes, I would. Without hesitation.”

It took Elio a long time to fall asleep. He dreamed of Bella again, her glossy blond hair, but then her appearance changed until she looked like poor Charlie in his blood-soaked sheets.

Elio woke with a scream, his shirt damp with sweat. But the house stayed silent and Oliver continued snoring peacefully beside him.

Elio reached over and took the gun his hand. Its weight made him feel oddly safe. He put it back down a moment later, but the weapon had somehow ostracized his nightmare.

The next few days, Oliver regularly left the house during their lunch break, but always made sure that Elio and Ethel were together and the doors locked. When he returned, he often brought some sandwiches or bagels for lunch. Elio had no idea what he was doing but suspected that it had to do with their immediate departure, setting up travel plans.

They'd decided to go to Italy for the winter in the hope that things would calm down in their absence. There was a ship sailing next week for Naples. Ethel would stay on and take care of the house until they returned, presumably early next spring.

Elio knew he should be excited to return to Sicily, but it seemed utterly unreal. He doubted that he would be able to enjoy their trip should the murderer still be on the loose, killing boys back in New York while he and Oliver frolicked around in the Mediterranean.

The police had left them in peace since the arrest, though once or twice each day a cop patrolled their street, looking into their shop windows.

Making sure to signal them that they weren't off the hook yet.

Ethel had started to sort and pack their clothes, and Elio helped her as best he could, brushing suits, folding garments, bundling up their winter wardrobe to put away into trunks.

Meanwhile, the summer was getting torrid, the nights humid and warm. As they didn't dare to sleep with the windows open, they all sweated in the stuffy rooms, tossing and turning in their beds.

Time was ticking down and even as nothing happened the atmosphere was heavy with a strange sense of foreboding.

Like the calm before the storm.

Or maybe Elio just imagined it, the sweltering heat frying his brain.

On the next Friday night, it was exceptionally hot, the air stale. The sun had been up all day, burning down on the city, and the old house seemed to work like a furnace.

Lighting the candles for Sabbath seemed like adding fuel to the fire. They all fanned themselves during the meal with improvised devices, but instead of cooling they just rippled the hot air.

Oliver went so far as to roll up his sleeves to his elbows and unbuttoned his collar, exposing the dip at the base of his throat where sweat was pooling, matting his chest hair to his skin. Elio stared at it while Oliver said the ancient words, going even hotter.

In bed that night, Elio kicked off the sheets. It was just too much. It felt as if the heat was even building, though the sun had gone down an hour ago. And did someone light a fireplace? Now?

He'd been dozing off but suddenly, Elio sat up, wide awake.

That smell...

He crawled over Oliver and out of bed, carefully opening the door to the corridor.

Thick smoke wafted up the staircase. Now Elio realized that the floorboards beneath his naked feet were warm as well. As he poked his head out a bit more he saw bright orange flames at the base of the stairs.

He slammed the door shut and started to shake Oliver.

“Fire! The house is burning! Oliver-”

“What?” He woke up, startled, dazed.

“The house is on fire. We have to get out.”

“Oh my good.” Oliver jumped out of bed, just in his nightshirt, yet fully alert. He was already at the door while Elio lit a candle and walked over to the wardrobe.

“What are you doing? We have to get out.” Oliver took a quick look down the corridor. Black smoke was already filling the room so he quickly closed the door again.

“I'm not leaving without... it must be here somewhere.” Elio stammered, opening the wardrobe.

“Elio!” Oliver yelled at him, reaching for the gun on the nightstand.

“I'm not leaving it!” Elio yelled back. “It's all I have left.”

“What?” Oliver grabbed his arm with his free hand and was trying to pull him out of the room but Elio was still holding onto the closet door. “Whatever it is, we buy it anew. Leave it.”

“I can't! It's the only thing I have left...” Elio broke away, starting to look through his clothes. He knew he had put it in here somewhere. Ah, there it was! He felt the thick cardboard in the pocket of his jacket. Triumphantly, he held up his old photograph, clutching it to his chest as he stepped outside into the corridor.

Oliver stood in front of him. The stairs were fully on fire by now, their exit apparently cut off.

Oliver pushed him back into the bedroom. They were both coughing as the air rapidly filled with smoke, making breathing difficult.

“Come here.” Oliver ordered, pulling him over to the bed.

There, he wrapped him in one of the sheets, then poured the cold water from the washstand over him, drenching him.

“What the hell?!” Elio gasped as the cold water soaked through the cotton.

“Run!” Oliver said, outright pushing Elio onto the landing and down the stairs.

“What about-?”

“Run!”

Elio ran. He hobbled downstairs blindly as fast as he could, his bare feet only briefly touching the steps. The wet sheet protected him as it covered his body from head to toe. Thank god by now he knew his way around the house.

The kitchen was already ablaze. Elio didn't stop and burned his palm as he opened the door to the pharmacy. Luckily, the flames hadn't reached it yet.

He heard Oliver behind himself and turned around, stopping. Oliver, also wrapped in a wet sheet, bumped right into him.

Elio nearly fell over the tripwire as he tried to open the shop door. But it was locked. And bolted.

The smoke got thicker by the second he realized as he pulled the sheet from his face.

“The key-”

“Up in the bedroom, in the pocket of my trouser.” Oliver's face was red, his hair sticking up with sweat.

They stared at each other, caught in their own trap.

“We can't go back up there...”

Flames had started to lick at the counter. Elio tried to remember how many of the substances they kept in here were flammable.

Too many.

“Use the revolver. Shoot the lock.” Elio yelled. He felt dizzy, hot despite the damp sheet that was quickly drying.

“But if I hit someone outside-”

“Do it! Shoot!”

Oliver lifted the revolver, aimed for the bolt. “Stand back.”

Elio staggered behind him, holding onto Oliver's shoulder as he pressed his cheek to his back, closing his eyes.

The noise was deafening. Elio's ears rang but the door flew open.

He felt Oliver pushing him outside onto the street and he hit the pavement, crouching down, gasping for air. Immediately after, it sounded as if something blew up inside the house, the blast throwing Elio forward.

There was suddenly broken glass all around him. When he turned, he saw that the fire was now burning up the pharmacy. Jars started to explode, sending shards flying, destroying the huge shop windows.

Elio stumbled to his feet and as he tried to get away from the wreckage he became aware of other people standing in the street, watching in shock, wearing their nightgowns. Some were running with buckets full of water. In the distance, he heard the horn of the fire brigade.

“Oy! Help! Help me!” The shrill scream was earsplitting.

High above them, under the roof of the house, Ethel had opened the window of her chamber. Elio just stared at her small face above the flames in horror.

“Take a wet sheet... The stairs!” It was Oliver yelling back at her, still standing close to the entrance to the pharmacy that was now going up in flames all colors of the rainbow. Fascinating, Elio thought, as he watched the blaze eat everything in its path.

“Blocked!” Ethel yelled back.

“I'm coming to get you!” Oliver was about to walk back into the inferno. Elio just stared at him, paralyzed. The fire was consuming the house at an alarming rate, licking up the facade, having now reached their bedroom. When its window burst he ducked.

“No! It's no use. I'll jump. Just catch me.” Ethel was already climbing out the window, her white nightdress making her look like an angel towering above the fires of hell as she squatted on the window sill.

Then the angel spread its wings and flew.

Yet Elio never saw her land. Because suddenly, something covered his face. It was damp and smelled sweet and at first he thought someone was trying to protect him from the heat burning his cheeks. Only when his eyes fluttered shut and his legs gave out beneath him did he realize that he had been drugged.

“Hello, sweetheart.” An eerily familiar voice whispered in his ear, and that was the last thing Elio heard before everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry!  
Please, trust me with this.
> 
> On the history of the death penalty in NYC, as Elio mentions the electric chair:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capital_punishment_in_New_York


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not for the faint-hearted - but if you've come this far I'm sure you can make it through.

The first thing Elio saw when he opened his eyes was a high carved ceiling with a rectangular pattern. It was spinning before his eyes like a kaleidoscope and so he had to blink a few times to steady his vision.

Somehow he thought he'd seen it before...

“Oh, sleeping beauty has woken.” A voice said. As Elio turned a little to locate the speaker, water splashed around him and he realized that he was lying in a bathtub, immersed up to his chin in a lukewarm, murky sludge.

Now everything came back to him at once.

The fire. Running down the stairs. The locked door. Oliver. Ethel on the widow sill, jumping. A cloth on his face, a sweet smell, putting him out...

And now he was back where it all had started, in the bathroom of the house with the phoenix above the door. A firebird rising from the ashes again and again for all eternity.

The picture suddenly held a rather personal meaning for him.

He had to get out of here!

Yet when Elio tried to sit up his body felt sluggish, his limbs not fully obeying him. He tried to say something but all that escaped his mouth was some sort of croaking sound. His tongue felt numb. What was going on here?

“Oh, don't bother. You're still somewhat paralyzed by the drugs I gave you. I don't want you to struggle. You've escaped me twice. Won't risk it a third time.” The voice speaking to him was low and thin. Elio had trouble understanding it.

Yet as his dazed brain deciphered the meaning of these words, panic welled up inside him, icy, crippling panic that would have been enough to immobilize him, no additional substances needed.

All he could do, it seemed, was turn his head from left to right, squinting into the semi-darkness.

From those shadows, eventually, a man stepped into his field of vision: short mustache, sandy hair, pale yet piercing eyes. Unremarkable, except for the intense stare fixed on Elio, filled with deadly loathing, passionate madness.

The man came closer, stood right next to the tub, and held something in front of Elio's face.

“I'll let you look at this while I work on you. Your family, I suppose? Well, their sight might ease what's coming for you. That you can't move or speak doesn't mean you won't feel the pain. So maybe your kin can be some sort of consolation during the procedure.” Only now did Elio realize that the man was showing him his photograph that he had rescued. The only possession of any importance he owned, a keepsake of another, happier, innocent life.

And this monster was touching it, defiling all he had left!

His mother's face blurred before Elio's eyes.

“Oh, yes, cry, beautiful. They all cried at some point. Screamed for theirs mothers. Who probably were even greater whores than them.” The man put the photography aside, removing it from Elio's line of vision as he crouched next to the tub and whispered in his ear, his breath ghosting over Elio's wet neck: “_Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven_.” The man tilted his head, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Do you believe in the kingdom of heaven, sweetheart?”

Elio nodded as best he could, swallowing some bathwater. It tasted sour, bitter. Like his fear.

_'Don't make him angry. Agree with everything he says.'_

“Then I will deliver you there. Though if you'd get accepted, I don't know. For you are not one of my angels, but... something less.” He reached out and Elio tried to flinch, expecting to be hurt. Yet the man only touched the thin chain still around his neck and pulled his Star of David from the water. It glinted in the low, flickering light illuminating the room before his captor dropped it again in visible distaste, the water rippling as it swallowed the pendant.

“Such a waste. For you are a beauty. “The man held up the photograph again. “Who's that next to your whore mother? Your father?”

Elio nodded again. His neck felt a little more flexible. Was he regaining control over his body?

“Was he a good father? With a firm hand?”

Elio remembered the beatings, the punches, the kickings. His father's belt cracking on his emaciated back. His mother screaming as he dragged her across the room by her dark hair... could that be called a firm hand? Somehow he thought the man in front of him would approve of such methods, so he nodded again.

“Ah, yes. You know, my father, he was a god-fearing man. He traded with China, and often brought me and my mother beautiful souvenirs back from his travels there. Silks, dresses... my mother looked beautiful in them. And I thought I might too, so I tried them on sometimes... He loved me very much, my father. He taught me everything about our Lord and Savior. There was just one thing he feared, and that was eternal hell and damnation, so he made sure me and my mother wouldn't succumb to sin. Oh, he was a stern man, very firm with us. I didn't understand it at first but he made me see...” The man put the photograph away and stared into the shadows for a long moment, something like anguish showing on his face.

Elio used the respite and tried to move as stealthy as possible, balling his fingers into fists bellow the surface. When he concentrated really hard he could do it.

“But you Jews.” The man suddenly hissed. “He hated Jews. Because you killed God's lamb Jesus Christ.”

The man pointed a finger at him as if Elio had personally been at Golgotha, wielding the hammer to nail Yeshua to his cross.

“You killed Jesus Christ!” The man suddenly screamed and Elio fidgeted, water sloshing around him. Were his muscles obeying him again? He tried to flex his thighs, curl his toes as the man's face contorted in anger when he yelled up at the ceiling: “Why couldn't you be one of my angels? You are so, so perfect. But you don't believe in our Lord and Savior who died on the cross for us, do you?”

Elio closed his eyes. _'Say something!'_ “I... wanna.” He slurred, his tongue heavy in his mouth that tasted of bile. “Wha-whatchalla do?” He forced these words past his unfeeling lips.

Yet instead of relaxing, the man's face darkened. “You are the devil! The scripture warns us! You're trying to tempt me but I will not-” He stood abruptly, walked away into the darkness, then returned with the long sharp knife in hand Elio so well remembered. He'd seen it in his dreams too often. 

“Have ye not read, that he which made them at the beginning made them male and female. But you... and the others... what are you? Abominations? No! Unfinished. So, I'll make you whole, and by your suffering redeem you.” The mad glint was back in the man's eyes. “The more lost you are, the more pain it takes to rescue your souls! Avow! Confess your sins and throw yourself at God's mercy!”

Elio swallowed. When he tried to move his limbs felt like jelly. “Ple... please...” He whispered.

“Yes, beg. Beg forgiveness! They all begged. Because they didn't understand... Get out, it's enough, you won't get any cleaner.” The man was brandishing the knife – no, the catling (he remembered Oliver explaining to him) – in front of Elio's face to emphasize his order.

But Elio was still too weak. His hands slipped on the rim of the tub and his legs just quivered.

With an impatient huff, the man, knife still in one hand, reached for Elio's hair with the other, pulling him up by his damp curls. The pain somewhat brought Elio back to life and he staggered clumsily to his feet, almost falling over as he was hauled from the bath. The man, not being tall or broad, was surprisingly strong. Maybe his madness filled him with a power he thought divine?

When Elio was standing naked on the black and white tiled floor his legs shook like those of a new-born colt.

On a low, three-legged stool nearby lay a towel which the man used to wipe Elio's trembling limbs dry. He shuddered at the touch but stood as still as possible. Should he risk an attack now? But the man's grip on the catling, held close to Elio's throat, seemed fast and tight as he rubbed Elio's body, a strange smile on his parted lips, the pink tip of his tongue showing above small, pearly teeth.

And then the chance was gone.

“Get down on all fours.” The man demanded when finished, his voice hard, cold, removing the blade an inch from Elio's neck.

Elio swallowed, yet had no choice but to obey. So he knelt on the black and white tiles, concentrating on his photography lying only about two feet to his left, fixing his eyes on his mother's small face.

As he inhaled through his nose, he thought he smelled the dusty heat of a Sicilian summer, filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, herbs, and goat dung. He faintly heard a man sing and a woman laugh...

He tried to concentrate on the illusion as he feared he knew what was coming next for him._ 'Mama, please, don't let it hurt too much, please... make him stop. Papa, make him stop, I will be good... I promise...please!'_

“Head down. Don't look at me, whore. I f you look at me I'll carve your eyes out. Slowly. One after the other, then feed them to you, pop them into your cherry mouth to watch you chew them. And you will. You will do anything I tell you, won't you, Heloise?”

Elio dropped his head. “Yes.” _'Mama, please... don't let him do this to me. Please!'_

“Say you are my pretty girl, my whore!”

“I'm... I'm your... pretty girl... your... whore.” Elio discovered that he could speak much better than just minutes ago. Also, his arms and legs felt stronger...

“Before I can end it I have to make you feel it.” The man's voice was low again, hoarse, obviously aroused. “Saying it is one thing but only experiencing the real perdition will make you fully understand how much you have sinned against God, how much you have debased His glorious creation by debasing yourself. You have seduced me, bewitched me, and your only chance for redemption, my only chance for redemption, lies within making you suffer to repent your vices.” He heard the man walk about the room, his booming words echoing off the walls.

Elio remembered the files, reading about what was coming for him. As horrible as this knowledge now weighed on him, it might also give him an advantage. He was prepared. He was aware that the other boys had been brutally assaulted, penetrated with all sorts of devices...

So he could brace himself, bide his time, planning his escape.

If the man would sodomize him before he cut him up it could buy him some time.

But time for what?

To talk himself out of this? No chance, the man was truly mad, a Christian fanatic, filled with the righteous wrath of his god mixed with some serious mental issues. What had he said about his own father? About making Elio whole but also make him suffer to repent his sins? He didn't understand half of it but to the murderer it all seemed to make perfect sense. 

Underneath all this talk of god and sin, however, Elio sensed that his captor was just a man, confused by his desires, horny like any other john. Yet somewhere during his life things must have gotten horribly wrong, because instead of paying boys like Elio to get from them what he couldn't get anywhere else he'd started to kill them, disguising his lust as God's judgment from above, as saving them and delivering them to a better world.

Elio was sure Oliver would be able to make sense of it all. But Oliver wasn't here...

Should he dare to hope for Oliver to find him, rescue him?_ 'Oh please, Oliver, help me...'_

But how? As if anyone would come for him. No one knew where he was. They'd never found the house with the phoenix where he was now held...

“Spread your legs.” The man ordered, disrupting Elio's frantic, desperate thoughts. He swallowed, his mind racing as he slowly moved his knees apart. 

He had to come up with a plan, and quick!

But Elio's mind went blank when, slow yet insistent, something plump and cold pressed against his hole. A bottle? Elio breathed through his nose, his eyes leaving his mother's face, not wanting to look at her while the man did this to him. Instead, his gaze wandered the room...

The agony increased, from a dull throb to a piercing, sharp pain shooting up his spine as whatever the man used breached him.

Elio wanted to whine, to scream, but was sure that no amount of lamenting would get him out of here alive. This man was immune to human compassion. All he wanted was to hurt and kill, as brutally as possible. He enjoyed this torture.

Elio would die here, slow and painful. If he didn't fight.

“That blond whore, I believe he was your friend... I sent you a message, did you get it?”

Elio made a small sound that could mean anything, biting his tongue. He suddenly welcomed the physical pain as it was strong enough to cover the guilt he felt because of Bella.

“He was one of my firsts, when I didn't know... but then he found me again. It was a sign! So I had to... help him. But he wouldn't let me. He kept asking questions, so many questions... until it became clear to me that he wasn't... that he didn't want... it was all about money! Mammon! The false god of our times!” The man snickered, steadily working the object up Elio's ass. God, it hurt!

Bella's face appeared before Elio's eyes and he shook his head to chase it away.

“So you don't pray to mammon? Good! But that whore, he wanted to betray me. But I'm not finished yet. There's still so much vice in this evil moloch...”

Whatever the man used pushed even deeper inside him. Elio grit his teeth, pressed his lips together. He wouldn't give the man the satisfaction to acknowledge the pain he was in. Not yet.

“Can you feel the Holy Ghost penetrating your sinful flesh with His grace?” The man whispered as something cold traveled down Elio's arched back. The blade of the catling, presumably...

Elio doubted any god would want to be worshiped like this. The device the man used on him felt big.

Too big.

Elio inhaled, tried to focus his thoughts.

Bella's voice rang in his head:_ 'He won't stop, Heloise. You have to make him stop or this will never end.'_

Fight! He had to fight his tormentor! That was his only chance. He'd have to kill his tormentor or this would go on and on.

The man further increased the pressure, his breathing audibly becoming faster, shorter, ghosting over the small of Elio's back. The pain almost blinded Elio and he tasted bile in his mouth. When he dared to look back between his trembling arms he saw his tummy bulging. What the hell was done to him?

“Say you are a dirty whore, begging our Lord's mercy! Pray with me! Oh Father, thou reside in heaven, hallowed be thy name...”

No! He wouldn't just take it. The man would kill him anyway, there was no use appeasing him by playing along, submitting to his madness.

“Your kingdom come!”

The pain now helped to sharpen Elio's senses.

His eyes locked onto the low stool next to the bath tub, only an arms length away...

“... take this heathen child and free it from its original sin...”

One of the man's hands raked through Elio's hair, abruptly pulling his head back. That must mean, as his other hand was still violating Elio, that he'd put down the knife.

Okay, now or never!

With force born from desperation, Elio flexed his legs and lurched forward, breaking free from the man's grip. His muscles worked! With a howl sounding more like an animal, Elio grabbed a leg of the wooden stool, twisted back around as fast as he could, and smashed its edge right against the man's head.

It sounded as if something cracked.

The man had been kneeling behind Elio and now fell onto his side but the knife was right there next to him and no matter how hard Elio had hit him, he was still able to wrap his fingers around its handle.

Yet his sudden movement made the thing up Elio's ass slip out. He heard something crashing to the floor, splintering. A bottle. There were glass shards everywhere but Elio didn't care as he crawled up to the man on his hands and knees, hitting him a second time over the head. And a third.

He was aware that the man was still wielding the knife, but he didn't care. Facing certain, agonizing death made Elio ignore his body's signals to flight. Instead, he felt numb all over. He noticed a certain soreness to his limbs, realized a sharp, burning sensation, saw the blade glisten in the flickering light, but nothing could stop him.

He brought the stool down a fourth time, but this time the murderer managed to roll onto his side so Elio only hit his shoulder.

Why was the floor so slippery? Elio slithered across it as he tried to get up without letting go of his weapon, to find a better angle to deal the final blow.

Yet it looked as if the murderer tried the same. As Elio stumbled to his feet the man took the chance to stand as well, swaying a little but still holding onto his knife. 

They glared at each other. With deep satisfaction, Elio noticed blood running down his assailant's face. The sight filled him with new strength. The killer wasn't an otherworldly, invincible monster, an avenging angle – no, he was just a man. When Elio cut him, he bled.

And he seemed to be getting impatient, anger making him careless. The murderer was the first to move, breaking the gridlock. “You fucking bitch!” He yelled, throwing himself at Elio, the arm holding the sharp blade outstretched in front if him, wielding it like a sword.

Elio felt as if moving through molasses. He tried to take a step backwards, out of reach, but skidded. Something wet was pooling on the tiles and he feared to lose his footing.

When the knife cut into his right upper arm he had to drop the stool. There was no pain as he watched blood gush from the wound but Elio couldn't feel his right hand anymore.

Yet the man's assault had propelled him further forward, past Elio, and he'd plummeted against the side of the tub. He must have hit it with his hip, and now seemed somewhat dazed as he bend over with a painful wheeze. He still had the knife in his right hand while he tried to steady himself, wiping his eyes apparently blinded by the blood streaming from a gash to his forehead..

He was mumbling something Elio couldn't understand, spat out blood, then laughed out loud.

As if sleepwalking, Elio picked up the stool again with his left hand, swinging it quickly and precise as he took a step closer, hitting the man's temple. 

The murderer went down like a puppet with its strings cut. But he still wasn't unconsciousness, still tried to get up. He kicked and jerked, grabbing the tub with both hands.

Where had the knife gone?

On instinct, Elio jumped on the man's back, forcing him down again. He felt a little faint by now but still managed to grab the murderers short gray-blond hair with his one good hand, shoving him face-first into the bathwater.

Something warm started to run down Elio's leg. When he looked, the knife protruded from his thigh muscle.

_'Funny,' _he thought. _'I don't feel a thing.'_

The murderer still struggled in his grip, water sloshing all around them, but Elio held him down with a strength he didn't know he had in himself, putting all his fly weight on him. He didn't feel anything but pure, white hate right now, replacing any other emotion, even pain.

This man had tortured and killed at least ten boys in some sort of religious madness. He'd killed Bella! All Elio wanted in this moment was to make him suffer as much as all of them had, to make him experience the same anguish he'd inflicted on his victims.

To make him taste what it was like to be helpless and in agony, fearing for your life.

The water started to mix with blood as Elio stared into it, bubbles rising as the killer tried to breathe. A copper scent filled Elio's nostrils as he felt the man getting weaker and weaker in his grip.

Juts... a... moment... longer...

Elio suddenly became aware of a loud, persistent noise. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own voice, screaming curses in English and Italian.

And then, like an explosion, a door burst open and a group of men entered the room.

“Elio!”

Oliver's voice made Elio look up. The murderer slipped from his grasp and raised his head above the water, gasping for air, his face red and wet. Yet he was too weak by now to fight Elio any longer.

“Oh my god.” Someone grabbed Elio, pulled him up and away from the killer. 

As if through a veil, Elio watched two other men dragging the man to his feet, holding him upright between them. He was struggling, but not very much, and they looked strong and sturdy while the killer was a shaky, dripping mess, bleeding from his head.

Elio smiled, filled with grim satisfaction.

He'd done that!

“Elio.” He became aware that Oliver was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes flicking from the knife in Elio's thigh over to the man who put it there. Then, before anyone could stop him, he drew a glinting black thing from his jacket – the revolver, Elio remembered - and was in front of the murderer, the muzzle pressed under his chin.

“You...!” He hissed.

The man spat in Oliver's face.

Oliver cocked the gun.

“Oliver, no!” Elio heard himself yell. “No, don't... he's not worth it.”

The room fell silent. All Elio could hear was loud, labored breathing. Was that him – or Oliver – or the murderer? For a long moment, he feared that Oliver would pull the trigger and blow the killer's brains out. And as much as he might want to see the inside of the man's head splattered all over the tiled floor - Elio somehow doubted Oliver would be able to live with killing someone, no matter how evil his deeds. Oliver was a healer. He helped people.

He wasn't a murderer.

“Please, don't. You're better than that. Better than him.” The killer had already destroyed so many lives. Elio wouldn't allow Oliver's to e destroyed as well.

The next moment, the pistol dropped onto the tiles and then Oliver was next to Elio, wrapping him in his jacket. “Elio... you're alive. You're alive.” He pulled him against his broad chest and held him so tight that Elio had trouble breathing.

The room slowly got darker. Elio shivered.

“You're bleeding.” Why did Oliver sound so shocked?

“It's nothing.” Elio mumbled, feeling lightheaded as he breathed in Oliver's familiar scent.

“Is that him?” Elio forced his eyes open, blinking a few times before noticing Ellison standing in the doorway.

“Yes.” Was all Elio could say. Why had the room started spinning again?

Ellison walked up to the murderer, who'd by now given up the fight, and just stared him in the face for a moment before he balled his broad hand into a fist. Elio saw the glinting of a knuckleduster before it smashed against the killer's chin.

The sound of the murderer's jaw breaking was music in Elio's ears. More blood shot from the man's nose and mouth as he choked in pain, spitting out what looked like at least three teeth. After another brutal blow smashing his cheekbone, he sacked forward, losing consciousness.

At a nod of Ellison's head, his two bouncers dragged what was left of the murderer from the room.

“I need to talk to him!” Oliver shouted after them, but Ellison shook his head. 

Elio groaned.

“You have something much more important to do.” Ellison pointed at Elio. “He looks on the verge of passing out. Take care of him and his injuries and leave the sick fucker to us.”

The room had gone very cold, Elio thought, as his hands tried to hold onto Oliver's lapels, his sleeves, but were slipping. Black spots started to dance before his eyes.

“Oliver, I-” Suddenly, his legs gave out.

Pain shot through his body, making him gasp out a moan.

Somehow, Oliver picked him up and carried him over into the other room where he placed him on the chaise lounge Elio vaguely remembered. Someone lit a candle while Oliver wrapped him in a rug thrown over the back of the sofa and started to wipe away the blood with his handkerchief.

When Elio opened his eyes again Ellison was looking down at them, his face earnest.

“Is it bad?”

“Well, he seems to have lost a lot of blood...” 

Their voices seemed to come from further and further away.

“Thank god the knife didn't slit an artery, it seems stuck in the muscle.”

What knife?

“Get him into the carriage outside. The driver knows where to take you.” Ellison was about to leave but then stopped and turned. “You did me a huge favor tonight, both of you. I'm indebted to you. And I always pay my debts. I've heard you're planning to go traveling for a while?”

Elio forced himself to stay awake while Oliver was by now ripping a cushion apart to bandage Elio's arm and tie off his leg. It hurt as he pulled the knife out. As did his feet. And his knees. And his hands. And the rest of his body. Everything suddenly hurt.

Oliver stared briefly at the blade he held in his hand, then just dropped it.

“Yes, we were planning to go to Italy. But now, after the fire...” Oliver wasn't taking his eyes off Elio as he spoke to Ellison, his voice trembling a little with emotion.

Elio tasted blood in his mouth. Oh god, the fire... Ethel... the shop...

“Italy? I have friends there.” Ellison said. “Anyway, I think it's a good idea for you two to lay low for a while. Leave the country. I'll pay for your passage. And I will give you five-hundred Dollars as a reward.”

“Five-hundred!” The mention of such a huge amount of money raised Elio momentarily from his palsy.

“I can also offer you a fresh start.”

“What do you mean?” Oliver asked, still not turning towards Ellison as he tended to Elio's wounds. “Lie back! Stop talking.”

“New papers, new identities. To give you two a future.”

“And how would you do that?” Oliver sounded skeptical but also intrigued.

“Your house burned down tonight. Oliver Molotok could have perished in the flames.” Ellison sounded rather businesslike.

“But that would mean that a corpse has to be found, to satisfy the police.” Oliver objected.

“Oh, believe me, that's really not a problem.”Ellison assured them, grim and determined.

Elio and Oliver stared back at him, somewhat dumbfounded.

“I take your silence as agreement.” Ellison straightened his waistcoat. “Fix him up. We'll talk later. When everything's done.” With that, he walked out of the room, his steps echoing in the distance.

Finally alone, Oliver took Elio into his arms once again, kissing him so hard it hurt.

“I thought I'd lost you.” He whispered over and over.

“Oliver? I really appreciate... but... Please, just get me out of here.”

“Sure. Sorry. God, I.-”

Then Elio suddenly remembered something. “But, can you do me a favor first? There must be my photograph, somewhere, in the bathroom...” He couldn't bring himself to search for it himself. He felt too drowsy, as if he hadn't slept in days, with a massive headache coming on. It took all his strength to keep his eyes open.

“Of course,” was all Oliver said, giving him one last kiss before getting up.

It took a few minutes before Oliver returned. But he had found the photograph, proudly presenting it to Elio. The margins were a bit warped due to dampness, and there was a drop of blood in its center which Oliver hastily wiped away before handing Elio the picture.

He pressed it to his chest, sighing. “Thank you.”

He couldn't walk, so Oliver carried him to the waiting carriage, still wrapped only in the blanket. Outside, Elio stared at the red phoenix in the window above the door. It all looked so ordinary now: a white villa like the ones left and right, all dark, no lights in the windows. A gravel path, a few trees, an iron gate...

Yet inside that house, a devil had done his evil deeds, bringing pain and suffering to his poor, helpless victims. Or not a devil – but a man. Just a man. A disturbed, insane man. Who, at some point, might have been just like he himself or Oliver...

Right now, Elio couldn't care less what had made the man kill. He was just glad that the murderer would now be dealt with as he deserved. Elio smiled, imagining Ellison's men beating the shit out of his tormentor. He stared back at the house until the carriage rounded a corner.

Only then did he remember to ask: “How the hell did you find me, Oliver?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this was loooong, but I didn't want to end this chapter before Elio was safely out of that house.   
The next chapter explains how Oliver found Elio - and how their story continues. Please, stay tuned for the final chapter next Monday (though I'm truly toying with the idea of a sequel).


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this ties up all loose ends and answers all open questions. If not, just hit me up :)

A week later, Elio stood on the deck of the SS Meteor, leaning over the railing, staring down into the wild gray water of the Atlantic. In five days, they would reach Naples.

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the clean, salty air.

This was something else than his crossing as a child. Ellison had booked them into second class, with a double cabin for him and Oliver and a separate third class cabin for Ethel.

No, not Oliver anymore. Elio still struggled to get it into his head. 

Oliver Molotok had died during the fire burning down his pharmacy. It was presumed that the building collapsed over him as he had re-entered the shop to retreive the money in the till.

In the smoldering ruins a body had been found the morning after, severely burned beyond recognition. No relatives could be traced to identify the corpse (and both his apprentice and his scullery maid had vanished off the face of the earth) but there had been a few fair hairs left on his head. And so, after Liz the wash woman had taken a look at the carcass (later sharing her experience with every servant on Irving Place), it was concluded that the charred remains had to be those of the tenant of the house and shop.

Mrs Adams had paid for the funeral, as Mr Molotok had so kindly helped her niece out of a great difficulty. The young woman already looked much healthier than when she had arrived in New York city and would be able to debut in Boston next year.

And so it had happened that Oliver's name was now Louis. Louis Fisher. While Elio's name was Julian Fisher. Apparently, they were brothers, born in Chicago. Real Americans, traveling the world, now on their way to see good ol' Europe.

Ethel had become Anna Smith. Apparently, she'd survived jumping out of that window without a scratch as Oliver had caught her.

But no one needed to know that.

Thinking back over the last week, Elio absentmindedly rubbed his upper arm where the sutures still stung a little. He had still trouble balling his right hand into a fist but Oliver – no, Louis – had told him that the numb feeling in his fingers would cease if he was patient and continued to move them a lot.

Maybe he should start playing the piano, he'd joked.

Oliver had smiled and kissed him: “If you want to.”

His leg hurt as well and he was limping a little. “Like a war veteran.” Oliver had to carry his suitcase when they'd boarded the Meteor while he'd held onto Ethel's shoulder for support.

Maybe that limp would stay. No one knew yet. Oliver – Louis - was adamant that Elio should exercise every day, that the sea breeze would revive his spirits and strengthen his body, and therefore urged him to take longer and longer walks on deck.

The huge ship didn't even roll. If not for the gulls and the salty wind, Elio might have thought he was still in New York as he circled the top deck, the summer sun warming his weary bones.

Yet, somehow, its rays didn't reach his soul. At his core, Elio felt as numb as his fingers, as sore as his leg. At night, he woke Oliver sleeping next to him with choked screams. In his dreams, he didn't escape the murderer, and the knife didn't stop at cutting his thigh...

Elio shook his head as the waves of the Atlantic became the murky water in a bathtub...

His memory of the fatal night was still a bit of a blur. Every time images started to become clearer, he tasted copper in his mouth and felt pain shoot up his spine, bringing on a piercing headache. 

He didn't remember much from the drive to a hotel owned by Ellison on Broadway either. He did remember, however, Oliver properly cleaning his wounds there with alcohol, afterwards stitching him up with supplies provided by an elderly and very obliging hotel manager.

Oliver had used tweezers to pull glass shards from the soles of Elio's feet, from his knees, the palms of his hands. It had been agony. Only when he'd watched the procedure had Elio realized how badly his body had been battered.

He'd felt dizzy and bone-deep tired lying naked on the hotel bed. All he had wanted was to sleep, to be left in peace. Yet Oliver hadn't stopped prodding him, explaining to him that his fatigue was due to both shock and bloodloss as he'd held up an exceptionally nasty green shard reflecting the light of the bedside lamp.

That must have come from the bottle with which the man had... Elio had squirmed on the mattress and Oliver had to gently hold him down to continue.

Eventually, Elio had fallen asleep while Oliver was still dabbing his body with iodide.

The next day, Elio had mostly slept. In the evening, he'd woken up to find Ethel sitting by his bed, a bowl of chicken broth in her lap that she'd slowly fed him (because his hands had been bandaged and were of no use) while telling him all he had missed with morbid excitement.

“I jumped. Can you believe it? Just in my nighty.” Ethel had grinned, showing the gap between her front teeth. “Thank god, Oliver caught me. It was mayhem in the street, everyone was screaming, the flames so hot they were searing my hair, people running around with water buckets until the fire brigade arrived. But by then it was already too late... Oliver didn't care anyway. Not for the shop. All he cared for was you. We were looking for you in the darkness and chaos but couldn't find you. Oliver got sick with worry. He started to yell at people, asking if they'd seen you. Then Johnny, one of the men watching-”

“What men watching?” Elio had interrupted her rapid soliloquy, confused.

Ethel had stared at him as if he was acting especially stupid. “You do remember the gun, right? Oliver got the gun from Ellison. On that occasion, he told him about the letter, that he feared the murderer was trying to lure you out. That he feared for your life. So Ellison offered him some of his men for protection, to keep watch on the house and tail the murderer. They loitered in the street day and night. Didn't you see them?”

Elio had shook his head, swallowing another spoonful of soup, gesturing for Ethel to resume her tale. Which she did with huge delight.

“Okay, turned out this had been a very good idea, because one of Ellison's men, Johnny, had seen you being carried to a waiting carriage, unconscious. At first, he'd thought you were injured and someone was taking you to hospital, but something in the manner of the man shoving you inside the carriage had seemed suspicious to Johnny. Just when he thought to walk up to the man and ask about his business with you the carriage drove away as if the devil was chasing it. But Johnny was quick enough to grab his bicycle and follow. When it stopped up 5th Avenue and he saw you being dragged into a house, he wrote down the address and alerted Ellison.” Ethel had to take a deep breath, the soup by now forgotten in her tiny hands. 

“In the meantime, police had been showing up at the site of the fire. Your special friends. I had trouble holding Oliver back from punching them. When I realized they were asking questions about arson and not about you and your disappearance, I pulled Oliver aside and convinced him to leave and seek out Ellison instead. But it needed some persuasion, I can tell you. I think he was close to shooting one of the inspectors.” She'd looked at the bowl of soup in her hand as if seeing it for the first time, eventually placing it on the nightstand.

“One of Ellison's men flagged down a cab for us and we went to Paresis Hall, both of us still just in sheets and nightshirts. No idea what that crook told the driver.” She grinned again, smoothing down her obviously new skirt. “Ellison gave Oliver some clothes and then Johnny's message arrived. Ellison quickly gathered a few of his men and they set out to rescue you. And, of course, I wasn't allowed to join them.” She pouted. “I'd have gauged that fucker's eyes out with my bare hands. But I heard you did a good job yourself, almost drowning him.”

Elio had believed her. “I'm so glad nothing happened to you.” He had told her, clumsily hugging her as best he could.

“Don't get sappy” She'd punched his arm and he had winced. “I'm going to find a smoke. Want one?”

He'd just shaken his head, lying back on the soft pillows. “I'll just rest my eyes a little.”

When he'd woken the next day, he'd already felt better, able to get up. His feet still stung but at least he could walk a few steps (and use the chamber pot; he wasn't too keen on relying again on Oliver's assistance). Oliver had been dozing in a chair by the window and when finished with his business Elio had crept up on him and climbed into his lap. Oliver's face had been so hairy the stubble could almost be called a beard.

Elio had liked it.

“Hey, good morning.” Oliver had mumbled as Elio had leaned against his chest, grabbing Elio's ass, pulling him even closer.

Through Elio's broad smile they'd kissed and kissed until Elio's shirt couldn't hide his arousal any longer. He'd rubbed it against Oliver thigh, moaning softly.

“God, you're unbelievable... Elio... No, no! You are too weak for that.” Oliver had pulled his nightshirt down, covering his hard cock, before carrying him back to bed where they lay by his side, Oliver stroking Elio's messy hair, his cheek.

“Any news?” Elio had asked to distract himself.

That's when Oliver had told him: “They found a corpse in the ruins of our house.”

Elio had felt – nothing. Just vague relief. He'd still been so tired.

“So, he's dead?” Had been all he'd asked, matter-of-factly.

“Yes.” Oliver had swallowed, quickly kissing his lips. “And I am too. And no one is looking for either you or Ethel. It seems like you never existed.”

Elio had just shrugged. “That's good, I guess. I mean, no one cared for us when we were alive anyway.”

Oliver's face had briefly hardened. “I hope no one bothers to search for my parents and tell them. But I doubt anyone knows their address. I didn't give it to immigration.” Oliver had sounded subdued. “And even if...” He'd trailed off.

“I'm so sorry.”

“In a way, I died for them when they found out about me and Pyotr. So, maybe it's better this way.”

They'd just looked at each other.

“Now you're all that I have left.” Oliver had tried to smile.

Elio had touched his golden beard. “I like that. I want to know how it feels against my skin.”

Oliver had shook his head. “You're... something.” But he had kissed him again all the same. 

“Rutherford will come by later. He sent a telegram, announcing that he has new papers for us. And the tickets for the ocean liner. We'll leave in a few days, when you're a little better.”

Elio had nodded. Then, after a brief pause, he'd asked quietly: “What did they do to him?” 

“I don't know.” Oliver's eyes had narrowed. “Ellison thinks it's better if I'm not aware of the details. But somehow I got the impression he was still alive when they set him on fire.”

Even then, Elio had been unable to feel sorry. He had remembered the heat from the flames chasing him down the stairs but there had been no compassion for the horrible fate the killer had met.

“So he'll never stand trail?”

Oliver had shook his head. “And all those families will never know who killed their sons. But at least it will stop now.” A shadow had passed over Oliver's face while he'd still stroked and kissed Elio's face. “When I saw you holding him down, almost drowning him... You know, when we forced the door open, I'd expected to see something else. You, cut open, dead, blood all over your body... I mean, there was a lot of blood but... you got him, Elio. You did it. You defeated him. You're so brave.”

Elio had closed his eyes. He hadn't felt brave. And this wasn't a victory. All he'd wanted in that moment was to forget; to forget that voice murmuring in his head; those pale eyes; forget that he'd knelt on the floor, allowing the killer to use him...

“Did you... did you learn his name?” He'd asked eventually, blinking up at Oliver. Somehow, this had seemed important.

“Ellison tried to find out a bit about him. All he unearthed was that the man who rented the house called himself Carl Brown. He had lived there since some time during 1897. The neighbors thought he came from England. But he kept himself to himself. They described him as quiet and polite but a little odd. He had no servants, employed only an old coachman, mostly deaf and half-blinded from drink. Everyone wondered why he kept him on. They thought it a very kind gesture.” Oliver had sighed. “Ellison's men have started to spread the rumor that Mr Brown went back to England on urgent business. And they invited his driver to one of his dive bars and will supply him with booze there until what little is left of his brain will dissolve.”

“Was he... in the house as well... when it happened?”

“No, he slept in the coach house, where Ellison's men found him the next morning still pissed like a rat when they searched the house for... clues.”

“Valuables.” Elio had translated.

“Everyone has to make a living. Remember, the 500 dollars we are receiving have to come from somewhere.”

“Carl Brown.” Elio had rolled the name around his tongue but it had just sounded trite, banal.

“The name's probably fake. Who he really was... we'll never know.”

“It doesn't matter.” Elio had said firmly.

Oliver had huffed softly, his gaze shifting a little. After a minute, he'd asked: “Did he... did he say anything to you, while he...? Did he explain himself?”

_'I don't want to remember.'_

Elio had shook his head. “No, he said nothing.”

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe if I hypnotized you again, you could-”

“Oliver, don't. Believe me, within these murders lies no clue while Pyotr killed himself.” Elio had said it very gently. “Don't compare these things. This killer was... he wanted me to suffer, that's all. It was all darkness within him. And Pyotr... You have to let go of him. He never... he never loved you the way I do, Oliver.”

Oliver's face had fallen at his words, his eyes misting. “Elio, I'm not-”

“No! Shut up. You deserve love, Oliver. But we have to let the past go and allow ourselves to love each other. Allow _me_ to love _you_.” Elio had whispered before kissing him, trying to convince himself of his pledge as much as he'd tried to convince Oliver.

When Elio had led go after a long moment, Oliver had said: “You truly are unbelievable.” He had tried to smile through his tears and that had almost broken Elio's heart. “But I'll try. I promise.”

“Good. I'll try, too. Just, please, don't ever mention... him... again.” If he had meant Pyotr or the killer Elio would let Oliver decide.

For now, they were off into an unknown future, a suitcase filled with brand-new clothes sitting on the rack in their cabin while they had 500 dollars in their pockets. No one had questioned their new papers. No one questioned two brothers sharing a cabin either.

Elio smiled, the salty breeze playing with his short curls, blowing them into his face, reddening his still hollow cheeks.

“What's so funny?” Oliver asked, walking up to him, crossing his arms on the iron railing. He was just wearing a knitted white jumper over a short-sleeved blue shirt matching the color of his eyes, his face already tanned from a few days at sea. He looked healthy and much younger despite the beard that he had kept because Elio could be very... persuasive.

“Nothing.” Elio allowed himself to lean a little closer. Siblings were allowed to touch in public after all. Everyone thought them very affectionate, the epitome of brotherly love. “It's just... I think I might be happy. For the first time in... ever. Save and happy.”

“That's good, because I'm happy, too.” Oliver grinned, wide and open, as he put an arm around Elio's shoulders. No one was looking at them twice. “Julian.”

“Louis.” Elio lifted his face, bringing it close to Oliver's. God, what a handsome man he'd pulled.

“I would kiss you if I could.” He said, watching Oliver raise an eyebrow.

“Later.” Oliver's beard deliciously tickled the sensitive skin beneath Elio's ear. “There will be time for you to kiss me all over.”

And in the light of a future together, of years and years filled with love and affection to come, they could let the moment pass. Instead, they stared out at the vast ocean while the ship plowed through the waves, carrying them towards new shores, leaving the old ghosts who had haunted them behind for good.

At least Elio hoped so.

**~End of part one~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
I've been working on this story since last October and I really enjoyed it :) I think this is my plottiest story so far. Sorry for the lack of smut but it didn't feel right here with the subject of the crime story and Elio being so young. But that might change in the next part.  
Which I'm seriously plotting right now. I have the set-up, I know what will happen, and I also have the solution for the crime committed.  
Now I just have to write it :)  
But first I want to finish the other story I'm writing right now. So I can't promise you a publication date.  
I hope you'll stay tuned for the adventures of Julian and Louis Fisher (and Anna Smith) in Italy!  
For now: stay safe! Stay healthy!


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